


Commodity

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 70,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case sends Tony back into a world he thought he left behind in Baltimore. Undercover and without NCIS resources, nothing could possibly go wrong...right? Written for the LJ Big Bang 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings : General spoilers up to season 10. Adult themes. Violence. Mentions of rape. 
> 
> Note : This is a slight AU where Tony spent a year undercover in Baltimore as a vice cop. 
> 
> This was written for the Big Bang challenge over on LJ. There is art for it, done by the wonderful k8bnimble. The art can be found over on lj http://fulltobursting.livejournal.com/22684.html. 
> 
> It was betaed by naemi, who was my life saver and helped form this into the story that it is. 
> 
> Enjoy.

**Sunday, October 10, 2006 – 2:42pm - 827 Montgomery St. NW, Forest Hills, Washington, DC –**

Clutching her plate of freshly baked cookies, Helena Shapiro studies the unassuming white rancher at the end of a short driveway. With its perfectly manicured lawn and dark green shudders, the mid-century dwelling is a carbon copy of all the other houses that line the quiet residential street. She checks the number on the mailbox for the umpteenth time to make sure that she hasn’t already approached this particular one.

Ignoring the butterflies that fill her stomach, she starts up the driveway. She only manages halfway before she retreats back to the sidewalk, pacing the length of the yard in an attempt to calm her nerves.

A new Washingtonian thanks to a recent job transfer, Helena still hasn’t grown accustomed to the East Coast way of life. While a homemade cake and a friendly smile earned her life-long friends in Portland, her new neighbors are far less congenial, opting to slam their door in her face instead. When she realizes her cookies have grown cold, she stares blankly at the plate in her hands. The chocolate chips have melted against the plastic wrap into a disgusting brown mass.

While she keeps pacing, Helena decides that she won’t return home without making at least one friend today. With new-found determination burning through her, she marches straight across the yard and up the stairs to the porch. She raises her hand to knock, stopping short when she notices the front door slightly ajar. Pressing her lips together, Helena eases it further open.

“Hey! Anybody home?” she calls, peering into the darkened interior.

She climbs over the threshold, resolving not to leave without meeting someone in this house. Sliding into the hallway, she admires the perfectly coordinated furnishings. A long Persian carpet leads the way into the house, extending straight into the kitchen. While the afternoon sun filters through the door behind her, a group of glass bowls on a table converts it into a brilliant kaleidoscope.

“Hey! I’m Helena from a few streets over! I have cookies!” she yells brightly, unable to hide the desperation that tinges her voice.

A part of her knows that if she weren’t so incredibly lonely, she would’ve simply shut the front door and moved onto the next house. But her recent solitude has driven her to do things that she never imagined for herself…such as breaking and entering into a stranger’s home.  
Though seeing as she’s already inside and destined for jail, she figures she might as well foist her baked goods on the homeowner.

As she heads deeper into the home, she stumbles over something and the plate of cookies shatters on the hardwood floor. Helena curses quietly, bending down to pick up the shards. When she notices a man’s legs protruding from the living room, she holds her breath.

“Sir? Are you okay?” she calls, creeping slowly towards the stocking feet.

A dark haired man, not much older than she, lies prone on the ground. His open, unseeing eyes stare at the ceiling, and his face is contorted in unfathomable pain. Unable to tear her eyes off the body, Helena’s chest tightens at the bullet wound in his abdomen and the blood that stretches to the Persian rug.

She blinks in disbelief, continuing forward. It isn’t until she gets closer that she spots the young woman lying in the far corner. With her hair fanned out beneath her like a halo, the female corpse’s closed eyes and peaceful face are a stark contrast to the man in the entranceway.

The red and grey-splattered mess beside the woman’s head makes Helena scream.

\--

**3:49pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

While the elevator climbs unhurriedly to the third floor, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo checks his watch and grimaces. Of all the places he should be on a picture-perfect Sunday afternoon, work isn’t even on the list. He knows that he should be thankful for the relatively uneventful on-call weekend he enjoyed; the pager often has a habit of changing his plans. But despite the nearly two uninterrupted days, he still finds the mid-breakfast interruption unforgivable.

He shifts the weight of his backpack on his shoulders, distracting himself from his stomach’s grumbles by trying to recall the name of this weekend’s conquest.

Already behind her desk, Mossad liaison Ziva David waits attentively. She nods at his arrival. From the flush in her cheeks, exercise attire and ball cap pulled over her ponytail, Tony figures their page must’ve interrupted one of those long weekend runs she liked to brag about all summer.

“Same suit as Friday, Tony. I take it you are having a good weekend, yes?”

“Nah, I have two grey suits from Armani,” he lies, making her smile knowingly.

“Do they both have a jelly spot from the doughnut you ate on Friday?”

Flabbergasted, Tony checks his jacket…even though there’s nothing he can do at this point. He pulls the club soda out of his desk’s top drawer on reflex, freezing when he notices his lapel is clean. Ziva is already in front of his desk, arms crossed and grinning wickedly. He admires her choice in spandex running pants.

“So it is the same suit. You have not been home all weekend?”

“I’ve been home.”

“Was it yours?”

He grins at her suggestion. Of course, it wasn’t his. A gin after a long case and an even longer week turned into a passionate, memorable weekend with a new playmate. Chloe or Kylie, or whoever she was, played hostess at her studio in Georgetown. Her killer curves and loose curls combined with just enough wine to let Gibbs head-smack him sober kept Tony very, very busy. When he got paged, she had just made waffles...it was the first chance they had all day for food.

“So how was your run, Zee-vah?” Tony nods towards her attire, obviously changing the subject.

“Shorter than usual. I had planned for fifteen miles. I only managed to complete two before I was called. But I did run here so I shall finish another eight when I head home.”

“Yeah, hard to believe we almost made it.”

“It would have been the first weekend we did not get called, yes?”

“First one ever. Think dispatch remembered to page McGee this time?”

Right on cue, Special Agent Timothy McGee rushes into the bullpen, nothing but a khaki blur. Without acknowledging his teammates, he tosses his backpack on his desk, and then drops to his knees so he can rummage through his bottom drawer. Surprised by the atypical impoliteness, Tony and Ziva lean to check on him.

“What’s with you, McSquirely?” Tony asks, watching his subordinate retrieve a dress shirt.

Exchanging a concerned glance with Ziva, Tony approaches Tim’s desk. When he hops to his feet, Tony realizes why the younger man tries to grab a change of clothes and sneak out unseen. Dressed in a pair of khaki cargos and button down shirt with Boy Scout troop patches, Tim averts Tony’s gaze and tries to slide past. Unable to believe his luck, the senior agent holds out his arms and herds him back behind his desk.

“Never thought we’d live to see a Webelos Great Scout in the flesh.” He laughs, blocking Tim’s newest escape attempt, and pulls out his cell phone to record the evidence.

“I’m an Eagle Scout,” Tim corrects, holding up his hand when Tony flashes a picture.

“It seems we have an Eagle Scout in its natural habitat. As you can see, the male displays its patches in hopes to woo a female of the species,” Tony continues, training his voice into a monotone like a nature documentary.

“Come on, Tony,” Tim begs, “just let me change. I didn’t have time to go home.”

Trying for a better shot of Tim’s flushed face, Tony ducks further behind the desk. Ziva eventually joins the pair, clutching her letter opener in her hand. With a nervous exhale, Tony begrudgingly agrees with her suggestion that he’s had his fun and pockets his phone.

“Just tell me one thing, McScout, what possessed you to come to work dressed like that?” he asks, retreating to his desk.

“Well, my neighbor is a den mother for her son’s troop. When she found out that I was an Eagle Scout, she begged me to help with the Weblos strudel table,” Tim explains, the crimson slowly dissipating from his cheeks.

“I think it is sweet, McGee,” Ziva smiles, twisting her body to show Tony the letter opener hidden behind her back.

“Yeah, yeah, real sweet. But you’re kidding, it’s strudel time already?” Tony gapes, unable to believe that the Webelos’ annual pastry sale managed to creep up on him…again.

“So that would explain those children in the market who continually request that I purchase baked goods,” Ziva adds thoughtfully.

“Yeah, Webelos troops are everywhere this time of year,” Tim says. “Did you buy any?”

“I do not give money to children that I do not know. How do I know how they shall spend it?”

“Well, the profits go back to the troops and help them raise money for activities during the year.”

“Yeah, it’s great they get to go camping and all. I’m sure your neighbor’s just like Shelley Long in Troop Beverly Hills. But what’s really important is the strudel. You got any in that bag of yours, Mc….Tim?” Tony leans forward on his desk.

Brazenly raising his eyebrow, Tim reaches into his backpack to pull out a small red box.

“Don’t tell me that’s raspberry!”

“Troop’s last one. They’re hard to come by this year. There’s been a sourcing issue with the fruit,” Tim says, eying it as he grins back at Tony.

“Alright, Probie, what do you want? Money? A ride in the Mustang? Me to find you a date?” Tony shakes his head at Tim’s shirt. “There’s no hope for you there. Tell you what, I’ll let you drive to the crime scene, how’s that sound?” When Tim doesn’t react, Tony sighs loudly. “And I swear I won’t say anything about how you drive worse than my grandma.”

Tim seemingly weighs his options before he shrugs and tosses the box to Tony’s outstretched hands. Just as the cool cardboard grazes his fingers, a hand snatches out of the air. Sliding his newly found snack into his pocket, Special Agent in Charge Leroy Jethro Gibbs heads to his desk.

“Dead lieutenant in Forest Hills,” he announces, pulling his weapon from his top drawer.

Tim looks down at his attire. “Boss, I, uh - ”

“Change in the truck, Birdman.”

Gibbs rushes towards the elevator. Distressed by the unfilled promise of raspberry pastry, Tony’s stomach growls loudly. When something hits his chest, he glances down to find a protein bar on his desktop. He nods his thanks to Ziva and rips open the wrapper, chewing the mealy mass with as much gusto as he can muster. Not quite a strudel or even waffles, it’ll have to satiate him until he can steal his pastry back from Gibbs.

“So,” Tim asks quietly, “do you think Gibbs knows that strudel costs four bucks?”

Unable to stop himself, Tony laughs the entire way to the garage.


	2. Chapter 2

**4:45pm – Back of NCIS Truck – En Route to 827 Montgomery St. NW, Forest Hills, Washington, DC –**

Knees to his chest, Tony presses his back deeper against the partition separating the truck’s cabin and the storage area where Tim usually rides. He checks his watch, frowning at just how long it takes Tim to reach the crime scene. When he thinks about how he let his teammates get ahead of him on the stairs, he shakes his head. He’d been laughing so hard that by the time he hit the garage, they managed to secure themselves inside the truck’s cabin before he even got out of the stairwell. Tony knocked on the window, shimmied the door and even threw his weight as senior field agent around in a bid to try and get himself behind the wheel. But when Tim simply mouthed ‘you promised’ and Ziva jerked her thumb to the back, he was forced to ride to the crime scene with the equipment.

Tim apparently didn’t realize that the promise to drive was contingent on receiving that raspberry strudel.

When the truck gently maneuvers around a corner, Tony leans into the pitch and glares at his watch again. At their current pace, Mallard and Palmer will have the autopsy completed by the time they reach the scene.

Tony pounds his fist on the partition.

“Speed it up, McGeek! You drive like my grandpa.”

“I’m trying, Tony. Do you know how hard this is? It’s like driving a - ”

“A truck, McObvious? Imagine that!”

While the vehicle carefully meanders around another turn, Tony rolls his eyes at the snail pace. They ease to a stop and Tony hears Ziva mutter something in Hebrew that sounds like a curse.

“When the light is yellow, you press the right pedal,” she advises.

“Ziva, that’s the gas,” Tim explains. “Yellow means you should prepare to stop.”

“But if you get through the light before it turns red, it is okay, yes?”

It takes everything Tony has in him not to slam his head against the sheet metal.

“You know, I feel like I’m in Driving Miss Daisy,” he muses, voice increasing in volume. “That would make you Morgan Freeman, Probster, and you’re the great Jessica Tandy, Zee-vah. Guess that leaves me with Dan Aykroyd, which is only okay because he’s a Blues Brother. Hard to believe, it won for best picture without being nominated for best director too. Driving Miss Daisy that is, not Blues Brothers.”

“He is doing it again,” Ziva announces, sounding irritated.

  
“ ‘ Oh, Miss Daisy,’ - ” Tony grins as he imitates Morgan Freeman, “ - ‘while you were out visitin’, I went and ate a can of your salmon. Now I know you said eat the leftover porkchops, but they was kinda stiff. So I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly and got you another can. You want - ‘ “

“Ziva, don’t do that! Stop touching my leg! Stop!” Tim yells frantically.

The truck suddenly lurches forward, sending Tony sliding across the smooth plastic floor. When the vehicle whips around a corner, the equipment on the shelves dip precariously and he shoots to his feet to stabilize them. A quick swerve in the opposite direction throws him against the rack on the other side of the truck.

Choruses of car horns erupt outside.

“McGee!”

“It’s Ziva, Tony! She’s got my foot on the gas!”

“Ziva!”

The truck skids to a halt, sending Tony face-first into the metal partition. Dazed, he stumbles backwards, blinking to clear the stars that flood his vision. He quickly gathers a pair of caps and jackets, climbing out of the back on unsteady feet. With a shake of his head, he hustles to the driver’s side of the cabin.

Tim slides out just as he arrives, bringing his dress shirt with him.

“No time to change, Probster.” Tony smirks, pushing the jacket and cap into Tim’s hands.

“But Tony - ”

“No buts, let’s go. You’re on equipment, Zee-vah!”

“You cannot expect that I will carry it alone.”

“All of it. You pull a stunt like that again and you walk back.”

Ignoring her lethal stare, Tony pushes Tim toward the white rancher. As the male agents make their way up the driveway, the autopsy van pulls onto the street behind their truck.

When they head through the front door, Tony is immediately impressed by the occupant’s opulent taste in furniture: Persian rug, antique mahogany table, Tiffany vases that catch and disperse the dying sunlight. He taps his junior agent’s shoulder, diverting his attention to the impressive light show.

Tim nods his appreciation.

Neither one of them sees Gibbs crouched several feet away in the living room.

“You two here to work or check out the guy’s stuff?”

“Both,” Tony quips, grinning at Tim.

The team leader stares intently at the prone body of a middle-aged, dark-haired man. Tony instantly recognizes the simple sweater and dress pants on the corpse from the casual line of his favorite designer. As he slides next to his boss, he wonders whether he already owns that particular ensemble.

He mimics Gibbs' stance, studying the corpse. Hands pressed against a stomach wound, the man must have desperately tried to prevent himself from bleeding to death. Based on the amount of blood pooled beneath him, he certainly wasn’t successful. The body’s facial features are twisted in unspeakable agony and his eyes, clouded with death, are fixed at a single point on the ceiling.

Tony glances up, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Hey Boss. What’s with the cookies?” Tim asks, pointing to the remains of a shattered plate and baked goods around the corpse’s stocking feet.

“Neighbor tossed ‘em when she found ‘em.”

“Them?”

Gibbs gestures to a young woman in the corner.

“Double homicide?” Tony asks, rising to approach the female corpse.

Gibbs presses his lips together, shaking his head slowly.

The young woman lies flat on her back with her eyes closed. Tony finds her face oddly serene. If it weren’t for the mass of blood and grey matter caked in her long blonde hair and the gun held limply in her right hand, he would’ve sworn she was only sleeping. When he notices her skimpy sundress, he wonders why she isn’t more clothed for the cool fall weather.

Before he can ask his boss about the scene, Ziva arrives carrying the camera bag. Shortly behind her, Donald Mallard and Jimmy Palmer enter the house with the remainder of their equipment.

“Metro was already here, bounced the case to us when they found out he’s Navy. House is registered to a Lieutenant Bailey Chase,” Gibbs announces, checking his notebook. “DiNozzo, pictures. McGee, bag and tag. Ziva, go ask the neighbors if anybody heard anything.”

With their orders, the team leaps into action, falling into their well-rehearsed motions. Ziva slips out the front door into the last remnants of the day. Tim shrugs on his jacket, zipping it straight to his chin to hide his scout shirt. Grabbing an evidence bag from his pocket, he sweeps the floor for any fibers that are out of the ordinary.

Tony pulls the camera around his neck, sliding next to Gibbs.

“Seems pretty open and shut, don’t you think, boss? She pops him, then does herself.”

Gibbs rises to his feet, gaze jumping from the man to the woman. While his boss tries to put the pieces of the scene together, Tony zooms in on the male corpse’s anguish-laden face. He takes a picture of the blood covered hands placed overtop the gaping wound. Mallard drops down next to them to check out his morgue’s newest guest.

“Why, hello, Jethro, Anthony, Timothy.” Mallard smiles.

Tony and Tim wave distractedly.

“Heya, Duck,” Gibbs greets, eying the bodies.

“Always work with you it seems.” Mallard shakes his head. “Mr. Palmer, if you’d be so kind.”

“Yes, doctor.” Palmer nods, retrieving the liver probe from the autopsy bag.

“My preliminary cause of death is exsanguination due to the bullet wound.” Mallard plunges his probe into the corpse, then makes a few mental calculations. “Time of death based on air temperature and body rigidity was likely between 6pm and midnight yesterday. Though I will know more when I get him, well both of them, back home.”

Gibbs nods slowly, starting after the other body with Mallard trailing him.

“You know, Jethro, that wound is oddly reminiscent of one that I learned in medical school. Shot by a musket in 1822, Alexis St. Martin survived with an open wound that allowed doctors to examine the mechanics of the gastrointestinal tract. The fistula...”

Feeling his own gut burn at the subject of the story, Tony crosses the pristinely decorated room to check on his Tim's progress; he kneels next to an end table with an open drawer. While he takes a written inventory of the contents, Tony snaps a picture of a box of bullets and a space just big enough for a gun.

“0.22 shorts,” Tim relays.

“Thanks, Probie, I can read.”

Tim rolls his eyes as he points to the coffee table in front of a long couch. Two wine glasses sit on its surface, one empty and one untouched. Just behind them are a few framed pictures of the man they assume to be Bailey Chase with backdrops from all over the world.

“You think they were dating? He did something that she didn’t like and she snapped?”

Tony wavers, knowing Tim’s theory is quite similar to his preliminary one. Though as he works his way through the room, he realizes there are no traces of the woman, or any woman for that matter. Every picture is a shot of Chase, standing confident and alone, someone accustomed to a solitary life. The décor of the house, while cultured and refined, is absolutely masculine.

She isn’t here...so why is she here?

“DiNozzo!”

He rejoins Gibbs and the autopsy team at the woman’s body. Just as Mallard slides his liver probe from her abdomen, Tony snaps a picture of her serene face.

The roundness of her cheeks and her barely evident curves give him pause. When he glances back to the man, his stomach clenches at the attempts to figure out how the two ended up this way.

“It’s hard to believe St. Martin lived to be nearly eighty with a gastric fistula, don’t you think?” Palmer’s grin is bright until Gibbs’ glare extinguishes it.

“The human body is a strange thing, Mr. Palmer - ” Mallard nods, touching the corpse’s hand, “- as is the spirit. Oh my, Jethro.”

“What, Duck?”

He pulls up one of the woman’s hands so Tony can snap a picture of the irritated flesh.

“Look at the skin around her wrist. This friable tissue indicates she was restrained shortly before her death, but do you see these linear scars? Seems that it was a common occurrence for the poor thing.”

“So she, uh - ” Palmer is cut off by Mallard’s solemn nod. “Oh G-d.”

Tony catches the rage that washes into Gibbs’ eyes.

“McGee, you find an ID for her yet?”

“Nothing yet boss, no purse or anything. Though I did find Chase’s wallet in the end table,” Tim reports, tossing it to his boss.

“That's him,” Gibbs says, studying the picture on the license against their corpse. “Now find her purse!”

Tim moves to search the rest of the house while Mallard studies the woman’s face. Oddly silent, he carefully palpates the area adjacent to the philthrum, then retracts it to examine her teeth. His kind features darken as he sighs with disgust. He shakes his head, settling onto the ground.

“What’s bothering you, Duck?”

“My G-d, Jethro. Her canines have yet to fully erupt.” No longer steadfast, the medical examiner removes his hat to mop his brow. His haunted eyes drop to the floor, studying the wood’s long grains.

“Doctor?” Palmer’s face is as anxious as his voice.

“Mr. Palmer, she’s just a child.”

Gibbs rises suddenly to head out the front door without a word. Being both a good senior agent and curious, Tony follows him all the way to the car. When he finds Gibbs leaning against the Charger, he isn’t sure what to think. While the scene itself isn’t any different than their usual fare, Gibbs’ reaction tells him that he missed something.

“Boss?”

“Whaddya want for dinner, DiNozzo? How’s Chinese sound?”

Flabbergasted, he can only nod, watching his boss scramble into the vehicle. He doesn’t even realize that Gibbs never brings them food until the car’s taillights fade down a side street.

_What aren’t you telling us, boss?_


	3. Chapter 3

**7:52pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

The distinct scent of Chinese takeout and sweat - though he prefers to call it determination - fills Tony’s nostrils as he searches into the life of Bailey Chase. Ever since they hit the bullpen, Gibbs has impatiently bounced between Abby’s lab to autopsy and back again on the off-chance that someone has results by now.

For all his years on Gibbs’ team, DiNozzo has yet to see anything perturb his boss, let alone a case. He still doesn’t know why the announcement that their victim was only a teenager, likely no older than sixteen, managed to get under his skin.

Glancing down at the takeout containers cluttered on his desk, Tony leans forward and frowns. Tim and Ziva are completely absorbed in their work. He sighs quietly, turning back to his own monitor. So far, he has managed to get to the bottom of nothing but his shrimp fried rice, Ziva’s chicken chow mein and Tim’s General Tso’s chicken.

While it isn’t quite the progress he intends, its progress nonetheless.

Just when he decides to ask his teammates about their research, Gibbs rushes back into the bullpen, knuckles white against his coffee cup.

“Somebody tell me something.”

Tony hops out of his seat first, aiming the remote at the plasma. A picture of a long-faced, dark-haired man in dress whites appears on the screen, followed by an image of the corpse, allowing the team to complete a cursory comparison of the man’s dimpled chin and olive complexion.

“Abby used fingerprints to confirm that the male corpse is Lieutenant Junior Grade Bailey Chase, 36. Paygrade O-2. Born and raised in Akron. Graduated from Penn State in 1992 with a degree in Physics. Enlisted in 1994 to get his PhD in oceanographical acoustics from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California. After he finished the program, he optioned out of active duty to work at the Naval Research Laboratory in Bethesda. Been there since 2001.”

“I took a few minutes to skim his thesis,” Tim interjects. “Really exciting stuff. It’s about how different frequencies of sound waves travel in water and their use in - ” He stops when he notices the three sets of eyes glaring him down. Cheeks flushed, he turns back to his monitor.

“What’s he working on now?” Gibbs growls.

“Don’t know, boss. It’s classified.” Tony drops back into his chair to signal the end of his information.

Ziva loads a few documents and a newspaper article to the screen. “Chase has maintained the same residence here since relocating from California. According to the bank, he pays his mortgage on time. There are two credit cards registered to his name with no charges for anything other than food or gas. He has no surviving next of kin, his parents and two sisters were killed in a car crash in 1994. The man is a park ranger, Gibbs.”

“Boy scout, Ziva,” Tim corrects on reflex, continuing to sort through his information.

“If the neckerchief fits, McGoo.” Tony grins, bracing for the head slap that doesn’t come.

“Wait, did you say he paid his mortgage, Ziva?” Tim asks, eyes still on his computer.

“Yes, why?”

There’s a long silence as the team watches Tim transfer bank statements and call logs to the plasma.

“McGee?”

“Most of Chase’s recent calls were either to work or a landline listed to a Malcolm Quinn. There’s one call that Chase received on Saturday afternoon that I haven’t been able to trace yet. The number was activated on Wednesday morning at a local convenience store in Columbia Heights. Only call I can find to that number was the one that came through Chase’s phone.”

“Probably a burner,” Tony offers.

“Where is it now?” Gibbs asks.

“Don’t know, boss.” Tim directs the team’s attention to Chase’s financials. “Bank account is pretty standard. Deposits his paychecks every other week. His set up automatic payments are made to his utility companies and credit cards. But what’s missing?”

“Mortgage payment.” Gibbs nods. “Bet he’s got money stashed somewhere else. McGee, find it. DiNozzo, you and Ziva go interview the friend and the owner of the convenience store.”

As Ziva and Tony reach after their gear and Tim settles into his computer, Gibbs sprints out of the bullpen. Watching the retreating form, Tony wonders what he fails to see in this case.

\--

**9:01pm – Morgue – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Waiting just inside the morgue doors, Gibbs sips his coffee and inhales the familiar reek of death that fills the room. Even though he never knows quite how to describe the smell of decay and putrefaction that inhabits this place, he’s always associated it with answers.

Unable to stop himself, he remembers the moment he saw his little girl on a slab.

It was the first time he smelled death outside of the desert.

Standing by one of the tables, Mallard and Palmer, dressed in their gloves and gowns, are in the midst of the female victim’s autopsy. Leaning over the corpse, the doctor removes one of the internal organs out of the thoracic cavity and drops it onto the scale with a disquieting splat. Palmer makes a notation on his pad, nodding as he slides the organ into a bucket.

“You know, Jethro, I cannot hurry through my findings simply because you wait there,” Mallard says, glancing over his glasses at the team leader.

“I know, Duck.”

Gibbs just wants to be present for the moment when Mallard discovers something that will help the team determine the identity. When he heard she was barely a teenager, his heart clenched at the thought of what could drive a young woman to shoot someone before herself. He just can never bear the cases where a girl will never grow to adulthood. No matter how hard he tries, they almost always remind him of his daughter.

He still spends every day wondering who she could have become.

Returning to NCIS, he accompanied the body down to the morgue, waiting impatiently for Mallard and Palmer to painstakingly complete their initial report and compile their preliminary findings. He floated between the bullpen, the morgue and the forensics lab to see who could provide him with any scrap of information first.

At his last visit to autopsy, he couldn’t leave. While his muscles clenched in anticipation for another trek to the bullpen, he just couldn’t bring himself to walk through the sliding doors. Staring at the full cheeks and round face that Palmer uncovered under the layers of thick makeup, Gibbs saw her for what she truly was.

A girl, pretending to be a woman.

He closes his eyes, a broken sigh escaping his lips.

“Mr. Palmer, perhaps you should wait to close the incision until after you deliver the evidence to Abby?” Mallard suggests, a stern order under the guise of a request.

“But doctor, I always close first,” Palmer protests.

“The evidence to Abby, Mr. Palmer. You can close before we start the autopsy on Lieutenant Chase,” Mallard says, voice surprisingly harsh. The assistant shrugs off his gown and mask, depositing them into the biohazard bin before vanishing through the door with several jars.

Gibbs slides next to Mallard by the autopsy slab.

“Jethro, is there something about this particular case that bothers you?” He pulls down his mask.

“Why makes you say that, Duck?”

“You never wait through my autopsy and you never ask me to deviate from routine. You know that I always start with the first victim and move onto the second. Why request that I change on this one?”

“Just need to know who she is.” Gibbs gestures to the teenager’s tranquil face, ignoring the cavernous hole in her chest.

“I’m afraid that I won’t help you much.” Mallard shakes his head as he points to a series of radiographs adhered to the light boxes on the wall. From Gibbs’ vantage point, they look like they might be teeth. “Dental analysis shows that she had impacted, unerupted third molars with immature apices. Her erupting maxillary and mandibular canines are also partially formed. That combined with a carpal radiograph showing an epiphyseal plate as opposed to an epiphyseal line indicate that she is likely between fourteen and eighteen years of age. There is always a chance she may be older, pending a blood test to check for any thyroid deficiencies.”

“Dental records ID her?”

Mallard solemnly shakes his head again, pointing to few shadows on the images. “I’m afraid dental care throughout her life was sorely lacking. You can see the numerous active carious lesions. Though I find the root canal treatment on her mandibular first molars most curious. It is partially completed. Do you see the signs of residual infection?”

Staring blankly at the radiographs, Gibbs simply shrugs.

“Well, it’s a form of endodontic therapy known as the Sargenti method. The tooth is accessed, the nerve removed and a paste is placed inside. It was common in the United States and England in the 1950s. With all the revolutions in dental medicine, virtually no dental practitioners in the United States still employ this method. However, it is still quite common in the former Soviet states. Therefore based on her age and dental treatment, she’s - ”

“Not from around here.”

“Likely not.” Mallard waves for Gibbs to follow him back to the corpse.

As they settle by the slab, he studies the teenager’s features. Under the harsh autopsy lights and muscles relaxed in death, she appears far younger than estimated.

“Based primarily on dental work, I assume her to be from Eastern Europe.” Mallard pulls open her mouth and points to a shapeless metal crown on one of her molars. “I’ve sent a sample of the metal to Abby. Its composition should narrow down the country of origin.”

“Got anything else?”

“Gunshot to the right temporal lobe is cause of death. I sent the bullet I removed up to Abby for confirmation,” Mallard says, pointing to a hole in the side of the teenager’s head. “Swabs of gunshot residue on her hand were also sent to Abby. This poor girl has partially healed ligature marks on her wrists. I did pull a few fibers out of the freshest wounds. She also has numerous contusions and ecchymoses in multiple stages of healing. There are poorly healed fractures of numerous fingers.”

“She was beaten?”

“Repeatedly and routinely. Every body tells a story and I cannot fathom the tragedy that hers does.”

“Thanks, Duck. Let me know when you finish Chase,” Gibbs says, heading towards the elevator.

“I’m not done, Jethro,” Mallard calls.

The graveness in his voice pulls him back.

“That’s not it?”

“I wish it were. There is also severe damage to the pelvic muscles and numerous tears in the tissue in that area. It’s the most severe scarring I’ve ever seen.”

“She was raped?”

“Many, many times...”

Mallard places a protective hand on her shoulder. The comfort that she never received in life, she could at least find in death. Gibbs leans forward, hanging his head, unwilling to imagine the horrors that the girl must have witnessed before she ever hit adulthood.

He must bring her a dignity in death that she never had in life.

Gibbs presses his hand against the gauzy flesh; a silent promise communed only by his fingertips.

_I’ll make sure you get home._


	4. Chapter 4

**9:21pm – Residence of Malcolm Quinn – 431 Abernathy St. NW, Forest Hills, Washington, DC –**  
  
Tony clambers out of the Charger, his sight set on the humble rancher at the end of the darkened driveway. With its porch light beckoning, the small house bears a striking resemblance to the victim’s that’s only a few streets over. Since all the houses on the surrounding streets look so similar, Tony checks the address against the one on the mailbox.  
  
It definitely isn’t Bailey Chase’s.  
  
When he and Ziva climb the stairs to the porch, he finally notices what's different about the two. The color of the shudders are a light blue in the place of the dark green at Chase's.  
  
“These houses are all the same,” Ziva whispers, knocking on the front door.  
  
“Cookie cutter.” Tony nods, realizing the white vinyl siding and red shingles to be the staple decorations of this particular neighborhood.  
  
Before Ziva has a chance to request clarification, the front door swings open. A short, stocky man with black hair appears against the soft glow of the interior light. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he looks exactly like Tony pictured him.  
  
The man's light eyes flicker with disappointment.  
  
“Malcolm Quinn?” he asks, flipping open his badge when he receives a nod. “Special Agent DiNozzo and Officer David, NCIS. You expecting someone?”  
  
“N-n-no,” Quinn lies unconvincingly. “Uh, what’s this about?”  
  
“Bailey Chase, you know him?”  
  
“Yeah, something happen?”  
  
“Mind if we come in?”  
  
Quinn nods slowly, sliding out of the way just enough to allow the agents entry. Tony can immediately tell that the house shares an identical layout to Chase’s : a long hallway leads to two bedrooms with an offshoot into a large living room, all centered around a small kitchen and a smaller bathroom. Spacious, by Washington standards, tiny by the rest of the country’s.  
  
They follow Quinn into the living room where he gestures to a well-worn couch. When Tony sinks into the nearly flattened cushions, he makes a face at the crumbs imbedded into the fabric.  
  
There’s an open bottle of Merlot next to two glasses on the coffee table.  
  
“You sure you’re not expecting someone?”  
  
“Nope.” Quinn shakes his head, averting Tony’s gaze.  
  
Even though Quinn’s reluctance to tell them about his evening plans leaves Tony suspicious, he doubts they are relevant to the interview. He tries to quash the clench in his gut.  
  
“You said something happened to Bailey...is he okay?”  
  
“He was found dead earlier this afternoon.”  
  
The color drains from Quinn’s face. “Oh G-d, how did he…? When did that happen?”  
  
“He was murdered,” Ziva says quietly.  
  
“Christ, you’re kidding? Murdered? Shit, that sucks.  
  
"You seem to be someone he knew quite well."  
  
Quinn shrugs. "We met a few months back, running around the neighborhood and stuff. Found out that we shared a few common interests and became friends. We didn’t have much time to hang out due to Bailey’s work schedule.”  
  
“Did he tell you what he did?” Tony asks, pulling out a small notepad from his jacket pocket.  
  
“He always said it was classified. I know he worked at that Navy research lab. Whatever it was, it seemed a hell of a lot more interesting than the shit I do all day.”  
  
“Okay.” Tony scribbles a few notes. “Can you tell us a bit about Chase?”  
  
“That guy had one of those brains, a big one, like he knew way too much. You ever know someone like that? So smart that he can recite books from memory, but can’t figure out how to talk to a girl?”  
  
Tony laughs and nods, instantly thinking of Tim.  
  
“Well, he couldn’t figure out how to talk to anyone. As far as I could tell, he liked to be around people who shared his interests. But he didn’t have a ton of friends.”  
  
“What were your common interests?”  
  
“Uh…what?” Quinn’s voice jumps an octave.  
  
“You said you had the same interests. What were they?”  
  
“Oh yeah, uh just stuff, like exercising, drinks, appreciating beauty in all sorts of uh, stuff.” He absently places his hand on his round stomach.  
  
 _Quinn’s definition of exercise probably involves lifting a beer can._  
  
Pressing his lips together, Tony glances around the house and notes the distinct difference in décor between Chase’s and Quinn’s homes. Despite the identical layouts, their possessions are polar opposites. While the Lieutenant’s house contained lush Oriental carpets and meticulously chosen antiques, Quinn amassed a collection of mismatched furniture and beer posters. When Tim completed his exhaustive inventory of Chase’s home, he turned up a cache of expensive wine in the basement, but not a single can of beer.  
  
 _Based on Quinn’s description, their friendship seems unlikely. What’s the connection?_  
  
“Did he have a girlfriend?” Ziva questions, crinkling her brow when Quinn yawns dramatically.  
  
“Nope. You know guys, I gotta be at work early. I think it’s time for bed.”  
  
\--  
  
 **10:08pm – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Gibbs predicts the ice in his newest CafPow purchase to mimic the lurch of elevator. But nothing happens under his fingers. He shakes the plastic cup, fully expecting to feel the liquid slosh around. When it doesn’t, he pops the lid just enough to check on the drink.  
  
There’s nothing floating on the top.  
  
When the elevator doors slide open, he hops out, quickly refastening the lid before the CafPow has a chance to consume him like it already did the ice. He hustles down the hallway to the forensics lab, feeling eerily like he carries something out of that movie Tony made them watch in MTAC one night.  
  
While he can’t recall the title, he still remembers the nightmare he had after about the blob-like creature leaking out of the Caf-Pow machine and taking over the building. As punishment for the film choice, Tony spent a two week sentence of hard labor reorganizing the evidence garage.  So far, the senior agent hadn’t been thoughtless enough to make that mistake again.  
  
 _Though with DiNozzo, it’s only a matter of time_.  
  
Gibbs holds the drink away from his body, hoping Abby finishes it before it finishes them. A chill meanders down his spine, making him shiver violently.  
  
The sound of a throaty moan suddenly fills the hallway, piquing his interest. Shortly after, another moan erupts, matching the first’s tone in song. By the time Gibbs reaches the lab, there are four distinct groans melded into a peculiar, dissonant harmony.  
  
Abby Scuito stands by her lab table, hands clasped and eyes closed. Her lips part as she adds her own wail to the mix, somehow managing to sound both in and out of tune at the exact same time.  
  
“Abby!”  
  
“Oh hey, Gibbs,” she grins, her blush barely evident underneath her thick makeup. “Like my new CD?”  
  
 _Sounded like a bunch of alley cats getting ready to…._  
  
“Yeah, whaddya got?”  
  
“Mongolian throat signing. The singers change the way they breathe and create caverns in their mouth and throat that alters the shape so the sound sounds like this! Pretty cool, huh? I’m still trying to figure out how to get the glottal khoomi just right.”  
  
“Abs.”  
  
“You know, Gibbs, I’ve always liked it. But I think I really got into it now that the lead singer of _Skull Squishers_ dropped out and went to Mongolia to train to become a throat singer.” She turns to her lab table, fidgeting with one of her toys. “Can you believe - ”  
  
“Abby!”  
  
“Yessir!” She squares her shoulders, seriously saluting him.  
  
“Whaddya got?”  
  
“Well, I’m still waiting on the tissue samples from Duckman for Chase. You know, you really knocked him off his game by asking him to do the girl’s autopsy first, right?” Gibbs shrugs, gesturing towards the computer with the CafPow. “Well, Major Mass Spec is running the metal shavings from the girl’s crown. But while you’re waiting, you might find this interesting.”  
  
Reaching after her remote, she flicks off the cacophony and brings up a pair of chemical profiles on the computer screen in one fluid motion.  
Both are identical except for a heavy spike in the center of the left one.  
  
“These are the two wine glasses. Pretty much your standard wine store Cabernet. Chase definitely didn’t break the bank for that date” She grins, moving on when Gibbs stares blankly at her. “The one on the right is from the empty glass, normal wine. The one on the left is from the full one. Notice those two spikes. 4-hydroxybutanoic acid and its binder, sodium oxybate.”  
  
He instantly recognizes the formula from a multitude of past cases. With a sigh, Gibbs shakes his head.  
  
“GHB?”  
  
“You betcha. Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, a go-to staple for any wannabe date-rapist. Enough to take down a very large person or a tiny horse, but not a large person on a tiny horse. I ran her stomach contents and found the chemical composition of a type of canned pasta sauce and cheese, probably pizza… but no GHB or anything else. Nothing in her blood or her urine.”  
  
“She was clean?”  
  
“Like after a really long shower.” Abby nods, grabbing Gibbs’ arm to drag him over to the opposite side of her lab. He notices the small skeleton in the corner wears her lab coat and a top hat. Feeling the question rise in his throat, he quashes it; some are better left unasked.  
  
When they reach the section that she devotes to ballistics, he catches the newest piece of art behind her station : a picture of his Sig Sauer. He smiles.  
  
 Abby brings up two bullets on the computer screen. She reaches into the hood and pulls out the gun from the crime scene.  
“North American Arms, 0.22S revolver, pretty much your protection standard weapon. Small and light, fits well in your pocket or purse,” she says, showing Gibbs’ its size in her small hands.  
  
He nods. “Or end table.”  
  
“Or end table. Ballistics show this is the gun that the girl used to kill herself. Like I said, still waiting for Duckman to send me the bullet from Chase so I can confirm that it killed him too. Serial number proves that it was registered to him, first and only owner.”  
  
Sniffing the air, Abby’s lurches after the CafPow.  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
With an exasperated sigh, she hangs her head for a moment. Then she grimly grabs Gibbs’ arm to pull him back to the main lab bench. She registers a few clicks on her computer, bringing up a picture of a small, green strand.  
  
“Fiber that Ducky pulled off the teenager’s wrists. They’re synthetic and based on the chemical profile, weather-treated nylon rope. Distributed to pretty much every mass retailer and hardware store in DC, but get me a sample and I’ll get you a match.”  
  
“Thanks, Abs.” Gibbs nods, passing her the CafPow.  
  
While she sucks a sip through her straw, he stares at the picture of the fibers emblazoned on the computer screen. He can’t help but wonder what horrors befell the teenager in waking life that her only recourse would be a tragic end by her own hands.  
  
 _What sort of life did she live if a bullet to the temple saved her?_  
  
“They finally did it, oh, Gibbs!” Abby grins, the red from the CafPow mixing with her black lipstick.  
  
He blinks, shaking his head when he realizes that he’s still in the lab.  
  
“Did what, Abs?”  
  
“They finally reformulated CafPow like they’ve been promising for years! They reconfigured the density enough so that the ice sinks, making every sip cold but not watered down. Oh, Gibbs, it’s incredible!”  
  
He cringes. Even though he has a very limited grasp on science, he knows enough to realize that the makers of CafPow have broken some fundamental law. Over his shoulder, he glances at the cup in Abby’s hands, fully expecting to see the liquid take on life. Yet again, he's reminded of his nightmare.  
  
“Enjoy, Abs.” Shuddering, he hustles out of the lab.  
  
“Hey! Watch it! I’m - ” When Gibbs sees Jimmy Palmer pressed flat against the wall, arms laden with evidence jars, he narrows his eyes. The autopsy assistant laughs nervously. “I – uh, Agent Gibbs. I didn’t see you. It’s my fault, entirely, completely my fault. You know - , uh, well, you know it’s my fault. Just got more evidence from the Lieutenant for Abby, but you already know that too. Um, uh, so how are you?”  
  
Gibbs glares him down.  
  
“Oh, okay, yeah, I’m good too. But yeah, I’m off to see Abby!”  
  
Without another word, Palmer slinks his way along the wall past Gibbs shoulder and ducks into the lab. Gibbs figures it’s probably time to see Mallard while he doesn’t have any distractions.


	5. Chapter 5

**10:21 - Bullpen - NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC -**  
  
Letting out a frustrated sigh, Tim leans forward on his desk to stare hopelessly at his computer monitor. Littered with dozens of windows and fruitless financial searches, the screen is devoid of any helpful leads. Tim slumps back in his chair again and runs his hand over his face. Thankfully, Gibbs hasn’t been back to the bullpen for quite some time, although he knows it won’t be long until he’s harassed for information he doesn’t have.  
  
Being the only member of the team actually present, Gibbs will expect him to have the answers from not only his own research, but also Tony and Ziva as well. From their last conversation, Tim knows that they’re still wandering around Columbia Heights trying to find the apartment of the man who owns the convenience store.  
  
He shakes his head, wondering why his boss wants them to press onward with this case. Just like Tony said on the way back to NCIS, it’s “open and shut.” Chase’s gun in her hands, his bullets in his gut and her brain. While they don’t know her identity, the team has enough to officially close out their murder investigation once Abby’s analysis confirms what the scene already told them.  
  
 _But why does Gibbs want us to keep going?_  
  
Tim can’t understand why Gibbs sent him digging through every aspect of Chase’s digital life. He can’t fathom why Tony and Ziva were ordered to plod around a rough neighborhood in the middle of the night until they find out the person that sold the phone on Chase’s call logs. When he checks the time, he knows he just has to keep up appearances until the director calls off their investigation in the morning.  
  
Tim figures he will have finished his bagel and be crawling into bed well before most Washingtonians even start their day. He absently picks a half-eaten eggroll off his desk and tosses it into the trashcan, debating about how to proceed. The only thing he managed to discover on a careful inspection of Chase’s financials is that the man deposits half of his paycheck into his bank account. The other half is always withdrawn in cash.  
  
This routine has been the same for nearly three years.  
  
One half for life’s necessities and the other to his mortgage and the ether.  
  
Scrubbing his hands over his face to wake himself up, he wonders why Chase would pay his mortgage in cash. Carrying that amount of money in an untraceable form seems dangerous for someone who appears, by Tim’s assessment, cautious and almost ritualistic.  
He knows there has to be something more.  
  
On a quick hunch, he pulls up the generic mortgage contract from the Lieutenant’s lender. While he skims, Tim debates whether the little flutter in his gut is what his superiors experience during investigations.  When he finds the portion that mentions a rate reduction if payments are deposited from an account at the lender’s parent bank, he grins broadly.  
  
He finally gets to whisper the word that Tony always says.  
  
“Gotcha.”  
  
Figuring that Gibbs won’t want to wait until the bank opens, Tim launches a program that allows him to slip through their network. When the remote server starts its security protocols, Tim spoofs his IP address and dips into the bank’s records. He finds Chase’s extra account within minutes.  
  
Finally uncovering the missing half of Chase’s paycheck, Tim runs through the numbers, mesmerized by the synchronicity of the transactions. Each and every payday, the money appeared in the account with the mortgage deducted two days later. Three days after that withdrawal, any remaining funds were wired to another account.  
  
The revolving balance hovers just north of zero.  
  
He purses his lips, deciding to run a trace on the money’s destination. It pings through a few other financial institutions before finally ending at a bank in the Cayman Islands. He instantly recognizes the logo from a previous case.  
  
 _The Sand Dollar Bank_ is a financial haven for drug dealers and money launderers.  
  
 _“_ What the - ”  
  
 As though he knows about the lead, Gibbs swoops into the bullpen, two coffee cups in his hands. One lands on the corner of Tim’s desk.  
  
“Whaddya got, McGee?”  
  
He blinks.  
  
“Found where Chase hid the rest of his money. I ended up reading his - ” Tim stops when Gibbs swivels to stare him down. He sips his coffee instead, surprised to find out his boss knows how he likes it : just a splash of cream, no sugar.  
  
“What’s he do with it?”  
  
“Pays his mortgage on time, boss. He also wires the same amount of money every month to an account in the Caymans. Do you remember _The Sand Dollar Bank_ from the Pulaski case, boss?”  
  
Gibbs shakes his head. “Any idea who the account’s registered to?”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Then find out.”  
  
The order comes mid-sip and Tim sputters his drink all over his desk. By the time he recovers, Gibbs is already in the elevator and halfway to autopsy. Tim knows he probably should have told him that the bank is known quite well on the crime circuit for the intensive security measures it enacts to protect the identity of its clients. When he glances back to the logo on his monitor, he knows it will take him quite some time to infiltrate the network. He can only hope Gibbs will accept that gaining access to a server of this level does not happen instantaneously.  
  
Tim mops up his spilled coffee with his sleeve before settling into his work.  
  
 _I need to do this right or else Gibbs’ll think I’m just some script kiddie._  
  
\--  
  
 **11:02pm – Apartment Complex- Somewhere in Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –**  
  
 Tony tries his best not to touch the grimy railing on the wall as he trudges up the uneven stairs to the fifth floor walk-up. He already made that mistake earlier, and the unknown substance still clings to his fingertips. The dim glow from the streetlamps filter through a small window and mix with the flickering fluorescent bulb above them, barely illuminating Ziva further up the hall. Tony pulls out his cellphone, frowning at the long list of addresses for people with the same name as the man who reportedly owns the convenience store that sold the burner phone.  
  
“How many Muhammad Madni’s can there be?” he asked, nearly crashing the car when Tim texted him a list of seven men in Columbia Heights alone.  
  
Well on their way to the apartment of the fourth one, Tony hopes that they’re finally right. With the late hour comes an understandable reticence to open the door to anyone, let alone in this neighborhood, federal agents. He trails Ziva down the long, poorly-lit corridor.  
  
When she knocks, pauses, knocks a second time, Tony studies the scuffed linoleum and the patched drywall. While it’s neither the lap of luxury nor the epitome of squalor, he just can’t imagine that this is the life any immigrant imagines when they lie awake at night in their homelands.  
  
 _Just because this is the great land of opportunity doesn’t mean everyone gets a fair shake._  
  
The only light in the hallway flickers out and he scowls.  
  
The door finally cracks and a short, olive skinned man appears. The lines on his face are accentuated by the interior light and Tony doesn’t bother to guess his age. His sunken eyes jump between the agents.  
  
“Muhammad Madni?” Tony asks, watching the man nod slowly. “Special Agent DiNozzo, Officer David, NCIS. Do you own the Square T convenience store on J Street?”  
  
Madni nods again and opens the door further. Confident that he might actually see his apartment before next weekend, Tony grins broadly.  
“What is it that you wish to know?” Madni asks, voice heavily accented with sleep and his birthplace.  
  
“Perhaps you could share information about one of your customers with us?” Ziva requests.  
  
Madni closes his eyes, laughing quietly. When he shifts away from the threshold, Tony notices a framed picture of an unsmiling, teenaged girl wearing a brightly colored hijab on the wall. Her long face and tired eyes are identical to the man in front of them.  
  
“You know it is nearly midnight.” Madni sighs. “Come by the store tomorrow. I will tell you everything that you both would like to know. But tonight, I am sorry, but I must rest…please _.”_  
  
When the door starts to close, Tony speaks up, hoping to elicit a reaction from the man.  
  
“A girl is dead.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“A girl is dead,” he repeats, giving more information than he’s supposed to. “We came across the number of a cell phone sold at your store. It can’t wait until morning. This is our only lead.”  
  
Glancing over his shoulder, Madni studies the picture of the teenager on the wall.  
  
“My Reeza is only thirteen. Please tell me your girl was more than a child.” When the agents don’t respond, Madni’s tired features perk up and he steps into his apartment. “Permit me to grab my coat.”  
  
Five flights of unlit stairs, one short ride in the Charger and several minutes later, Madni leads the two agents into the darkened convenience store on the seedier side of Columbia Heights. On the outside window and door, thick bars protect the few rows of mundane merchandise. At the front of the store, a thick wall of bullet proof glass wraps around the counter and register, encasing the only things of value.  
  
Madni ushers them into the enclosure, pointing to the video monitor beneath the counter.  
  
“I keep the footage for six months. You can never be too careful,” he says, pointing to a shotgun that rested on the bottom shelf.  
  
“We’re looking for someone who bought a cell phone Wednesday morning.”  
  
“I only activated a few this week. Allow me to check.” Madni selects an unlabeled tape out of a small pile and places it in a VCR. While he fast-forwards through his days, the customers rush past across the screen as black and white specks.  
  
 _It’s probably what this man’s life feels like._  
  
Disinterested in the surveillance footage, Tony steps around the counter and grabs a candy bar from the store’s pathetic selection. When he offers a few bills, Madni shakes his head at the money. He points to a frozen image on the screen.  
  
“What is it?” Tony shucks the wrapper off his midnight snack.  
  
“Wednesday morning, I activated a cell phone for that man.” Madni points at the television and Ziva confirms the time on her phone. “Before that day, I had never seen him and I have not seen him since.”  
  
There’s the pixelated back of a large, bald man on the screen. When Tony notices the star tattoo on the man’s neck, his eyes automatically search for the corresponding mark. He inhales sharply, silently hoping he won’t find it...yet just above the man’s left wrist, a partially formed skeleton tattoo takes up most of his forearm. The sight of it twists his stomach.  
  
He chokes on his candy, sputtering nuts all over the counter.  
  
“Tony,” Ziva says quietly, “the timestamp is identical to the information that McGee found about the phone.”  
  
Unable to pull his eyes off the familiar markings, Tony nods distractedly. He pockets the rest of his snack and swivels towards Madni. Coughing, he hugs his arms tightly to his chest.  
  
“Any video of that guy’s face?”  
  
 _It just can’t be._  
  
Madni shakes his head.  
  
“Will you work with a sketch artist?”  
  
“Send them here. After your news, I do not believe that I will sleep tonight.”  
  
Tony nods slowly, gaze still riveted on the screen. After passing Madni his card, he hustles out of the store, thankful for the cool fall air that grazes his skin. He leans against the Charger, the frigid metal biting through his suit coat as he glances at the sky. The buildings that line the street are mostly dark except for a few lights burning deep into the night, the dwellings of people ignoring the start of another workweek in a few short hours.  
  
He sighs quietly, desperate to find a star bright enough to peek through the dense clouds and pollution.  
  
 _I know it won’t work, but I really could use a miracle…_  
  
There isn’t one.  
  
Sighing again, he rubs the back of his neck. He racks his brain, trying to remember just how long it has been since he’s seen those tattoos. The memories of a long-buried undercover mission return to him, hitting him hard enough to suck the air from his lungs. An icy breeze sweeps past, licking the sweat off his brow.  
  
During a life lived long before NCIS, Tony spent the better part of a year deep undercover with a drug cartel in Baltimore. He built trust first as a supplier, delivering quality goods as low prices. After only a few months, he managed to infiltrate the organization, climbing the ranks quickly until he ended as an enforcer for its leader, Enrico Carreras. When he compiled enough information to help the state bring Carreras to justice, the FBI swooped in and claimed jurisdiction on the Baltimore PD’s case.  
  
His case.  
  
They never made it to the courtroom due to procedural errors. Carreras, as well as the rest of his organization, walked free. Thankfully for Tony, his handler pulled him from the case right before the FBI showed up, managing to keep his cover intact.  
  
As far as the cartel knew, he skipped town.  
  
Tony runs his hand over his left forearm and his neck, feeling the burn of the fake tattoos he wore. Every member of the cartel bore those markings, a star on the neck and a partial skeleton on the left arm, one bone for every murder.  
  
 _Five bones for the men who should still be in WitSec…_  
  
 _I could barely look at my face in the mirror…that star on my neck was the mark of the beast._  
  
 _The mark of the Angel Caido cartel._  
  
When the door to the convenience store opens, its tiny bell clanging against the glass, he turns to find Ziva coming out. Smiling tightly, she pushes her cell phone into her pocket.  
  
“Madni gave us the copy of the video. Perhaps Abby can get an ID on the man with the phone.” She studies Tony’s pale complexion. “You are alright?”  
  
“Yeah, figured I could use some fresh air.” He laughs, pulling his candy bar from his pocket.  
  
“Slaughtered by gumdrops, yes?” she asks, heading towards the Charger.  
  
“Death by chocolate,” he corrects, dropping into the driver’s seat.  
  
Before he starts the car, Tony stares back through the illuminated store front. Hid away from the rest of the world within the safe confines of his enclosure, Madni hunches over his counter and fidgets with the till of his register. Somehow, in this nondescript place, separated by years and many miles, Tony can’t fathom how he discovered a fleeting connection to the assignment that nearly ruined him professionally and  
personally.  
  
He slumps back against the seat, feeling the bile bubble to his tongue. When Ziva slams the passenger door, he doesn’t even notice. Her hand on his shoulder makes him jump.  
  
 “Tony? We shall head back to NCIS now, yes?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Monday, October 11, 2006 – 12:06am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
The hollow clicks of Tim’s keyboard echo through the bullpen while Gibbs waits in front of the plasma for the results. Arms crossed and back rigid, he stares at the photos of the lieutenant in his dress whites and their female victim on the slab. When Tim leaps out of his chair and rushes to Tony’s computer, Gibbs doesn’t even bother to turn around.  
  
He learned very quickly not to ask Tim for clarification about his hacking activities. If he ever has a lapse in judgment, Gibbs is usually treated to a long-winded diatribe that he doesn’t understand. Sometimes he thinks English might be the younger man’s second language.  
  
 _No clue what the mother tongue is._  
  
All he needs to know is that Tim commandeered Tony’s computer to do something against that bank in the Caymans while he did something else on his own. Even though it’s probably illegal, Gibbs doesn’t really care, as long as he gets the information they need.  
  
Rushing to his desk, Tim says, “Boss, you know, this will probably take a w - “  
  
Gibbs swivels to glare at the young man’s flushed face. Nodding silent, Tim drops back into desk chair. His fingers barely touch the keyboard while he works. There’s a momentary break in the tapping and he mutters something unintelligible.  
  
Gibbs swigs his coffee, determined to connect the lieutenant and the girl.  
  
 _What the hell does a Navy scientist want with a teenager?_  
  
 _And what happened that made her kill him before herself?_  
  
There are so many questions for which Gibbs has no answers. He rubs the back of his head; he always dislikes this part of the investigation the most. After his orders send his team scattering, all he can do is sip his coffee and try to connect the dots. He realizes that it takes time for his agents to rundown leads, his autopsy team to deal with the remains, and his forensic scientist to sift through their mountain of evidence. Even though it’s the natural progress of a search, he still can barely stand to wait for results.  
  
He glances at his watch, acutely aware of the seconds that tick towards morning. If they don’t have sufficient progress on the circumstantial evidence, he knows the director will ask him to close out the murder and transfer their Jane Doe to the appropriate agency for identification. He exhales, listening to the incessant clack of Tim’s typing.  
  
 _There’s something here, I can feel it._  
  
Tim slams his mouse against the desk, grumbling to himself.  
  
 _Seems like I’m not the only one who’s frustrated._  
  
The elevator’s ding diverts Gibbs’ attention from the plasma. Moments later, Tony heads into the bullpen with Ziva in tow.  
  
“We talked to Malcolm Quinn,” she reports, taking her seat. “He did not appear to know Chase particularly well. Acquaintances, you would say, yes? We also obtained surveillance video from the store that sold the phone.”  
  
Frozen by the entrance to the bullpen, Tony stares back at the elevator. Despite his physical presence, he seems a world away. Gibbs approaches him to land a smack on the back of his senior agent’s head.  
  
Tony blinks.  
  
“Got the tape, boss.” After handing it to Gibbs, he heads towards to his desk.  
  
“Tony! Don’t touch that!” Tim yelps.  
  
Tony does a double-take between the junior agent and his computer.  
  
“Uh, boss?”  
  
“Your computer is in the process of running a vulnerability scanner for me against the _Sand Dollar Bank_. Once I sort out the right code to exploit, I can spoof my IP address to gain access. They’re using a modern TCP, so  I need your system to finish the program that’ll let me figure out which IP to use. Otherwise, I’m just guessing and I don’t think I can get in if I need to… ” Tim’s breathless ramblings morph into an incoherent mess of technical jargon as the other agents stare at him wide-eyed.  
  
Swallowing hard, Tony turns his attention to Gibbs. “Uh, boss?”  
  
“Tony, I’m using it!”  
  
Gibbs raises his eyebrows at Tim, waiting for the sarcastic response that doesn’t come. When he looks at Tony, he notices the slouch in his senior agent’s shoulders.  
  
 “DiNozzo?”  
  
“Boss, please,” Tim moans plaintively, features tightening when all eyes return to him. “I just can’t think with all the noise. If I screw up this intrusion attempt, they’ll permanently lock out my IP address and possibly the network. I might only get one chance to do this _.”_  
Gibbs presses his lips together, nodding solemnly. “DiNozzo, drop that tape off with Abby and go home. You and Ziva be back here by 0800. McGee…finish whatever you’re doing.”  
  
Tim hunches towards his monitor, fingers thudding against his keyboard. While DiNozzo and Ziva slip to the elevator, Gibbs studies his sullen senior agent. When his gut bubbles, Gibbs tries to swallow the feeling. He decides to give Tony time to sort himself out before he digs for the problem.  
  
Mallard’s results seem like the perfect distraction.  
  
\--  
  
 **12:23am – Morgue – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Leaning against the wall just inside the autopsy office, Gibbs watches the medical examiner pour a cup of tea from an opulent, flowered pot. As he begins to fill another, Gibbs shakes his head.  
  
“Already got one, Duck.”  
  
Mallard nods distractedly, pulling a swig of the beverage. Based on the pile of Chase’s personal effects littered across the desk, the autopsy must’ve ended early.  
  
“Whaddya got?”  
  
Dropping his gaze to the disorder, the doctor blows on his tea to cool it before he takes another sip. Gibbs can tell the drink has its intended result when the tense shoulders relax. With a sigh, Mallard passes him a leather-bound journal.  
  
“Our lieutenant was quite a depraved individual, Jethro. On the surface, he was a brilliant man of distinguished taste with a proclivity for antiques, fine wines, classical music and Romantic poetry. A true renaissance man, if you will. However, that journal reveals the thoughts of a sociopath.”  
  
He continues on his drink while Gibbs flips through the thick, cream pages. The beauty of the sloping script is betrayed by the repugnance in the words. Unable to finish an entry, he slams the book closed.  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“It’s a collection of Chase’s fantasies. Based on his writings, he appeared unable to find the type of woman he believed that he deserved. His frequent advances towards women were met with refusals. He documented their words as well as the copious amounts of violence he wished to enact on them.”  
  
Gibbs flicks through the tome again, feeling his stomach turn when he finds only a few empty pages.  
  
“Whole lotta rejection.”  
  
“Quite frequently, in fact. It wouldn’t be so troubling if his musings stayed as so. However several months ago, his recordings became actual accounts of his actions against women. With every attack, he became more sadistic and cruel. That -  ” Mallard points at the book  “- is the recounting of a man’s descent into madness.”  
  
“You really think he hurt these women? Didn’t find any reports through Metro.”  
  
“Our lieutenant is far too intelligent to act out such fantasies on a woman who would report him to the local authorities. Likely, he chose his victims amongst those well removed from society.”  
  
“Prostitutes?”  
  
“That is most probable. While he brutalized these women both physically and psychologically, I doubt he ever graduated to murder. Actions like that are incompatible with his personality. He seemed to wish pain on them, but never death. I would deduce that he simply let the woman go when he finished. Whoever they are, he probably knew they would never pursue any recourse.”  
  
“How many?”  
  
The medical examiner replenishes his drink. Pausing to swill the tea, he’s momentarily hypnotized by the amber liquid. He sighs, adding a splash of milk that blossoms in the center.  
  
“There are dozens of separate incidents.”  
  
Mallard frowns at his teacup, placing it onto his desk as he stands. He leads the way to the body on the autopsy slab. With the light spilling from the office barely touching his generic features, the lieutenant still appears more man than monster.  
  
Mallard flicks on the surgical lamps, illuminating the hollows of the body’s face.  
  
“Cause of death was the two bullets that I removed from the thoracic cavity,” he reports, voice abnormally callous. “One of them nicked the stomach, leading to exsanguination. Time of death would be around 8:30 on Saturday night. For our dear girl over there, her life ended shortly after 9. I believe she waited for him to die.”  
  
“Making sure the job was done.”  
  
Mallard exhales slowly, the deepening creases on his face capturing the light. When he hunches on the autopsy slab, Gibbs rests his hand on the older man’s shoulder.  
  
“Jethro, I don’t understand.” He frowns. “There are times when I realize that no matter how long I study the human psyche, I will never truly understand any of it. How are we to find any solace in this?”  
  
“He suffer?”  
  
 “A great deal.”  
  
“Sometimes that’s enough.”  
  
Under the harsh brightness, there’s something in Mallard’s eyes that Gibbs is unaccustomed to seeing : confusion. Shaking his head, he sighs quietly, watching the color leaves his friend’s cheeks.  
  
“But not this time, Duck. We’ll find out how she got here.”  
  
\--  
  
 **3:18am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Tim reads the lines of code that scroll across the screen, stopping to blink himself awake. Even though his attack granted him access to the bank’s server, their security still provides him with numerous layers upon layers of encryption to comb through before he can even find the right account. Determining the identity of the holder seems as though it will be the simple part.  
  
 _Why do the computer leads always pop up after midnight?_  
  
When his port scanner bounces back as filtered, he sighs loudly, knowing that it’s still better than tipping off the security team to his attack. The last thing he needs to be booted from the system… _again._ He doesn’t even want to try to explain to Gibbs what happens when a server blocks access to an individual IP address.  
  
He double-checks his network enumeration program to see the list of vulnerabilities he already tried to exploit. When he first received the list of security holes in the system that he could use to access the bank’s grid, he figured that he wouldn’t be home much later than the rest of the team. But as the hours passed, he ran into more levels of superfluous code, blocked ports and dummy usernames than he’s ever seen before. Now he wonders whether there actually is a way to gain entry at all.  
  
Tim knows he is running out of time.  
  
He sighs quietly, continuing to nix the unusable codes that he recognizes. When he finds a highly infectious computer worm close to the bottom of the list, he decides to go for the long-shot. After a quick check into the program’s specifics, he finds that it’s close to the worm that his college roommate unwittingly unleashed on MIT as a senior prank. Hopefully, the month he spent before graduation scrubbing the network will finally pay off.  
  
Cloaking his IP address, Tim picks his way into the network again. With only a few keystrokes, he activates the worm and takes over the infected computer. When he finds out his proxy is a high-level manager’s machine, he grins broadly.  
  
 _It’s about time I catch a break._  
  
Fingers flying over his keyboard, he accesses the account in question and downloads the data to his hard drive. It takes him a few more minutes to erase evidence of his presence on the server.  
  
Once finished, he slumps back in his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow.  
  
There’s no chance to celebrate his victory when Gibbs rushes back into the bullpen, coffee cup in hand.  
  
“Got something, McGee?”  
  
“Yeah, but I haven’t had a chance to get through the information yet.”  
  
Gibbs slides in front of the plasma, obviously waiting for him.  
  
“There’s a lot of money in the account…registered to an Anthony Masterson.” While Gibbs pulls a sip of his coffee, Tim runs a search on the name. “Lives in Washington, DC. He, uh -”  
  
When he finds a picture of Masterson, he stares slack-jawed at his monitor.  
  
The high forehead, wide eyes and strong jaw are familiar enough to make his blood run cold.  
  
“McGee?”  
  
He blinks, as though the face is merely a hallucination brought about by the late night.  
  
“McGee!”  
  
With one click, the image transfers to the plasma and Gibbs’ face pales.  
  
“Go home. Be back here at 0800.”  
  
Tim’s eyes jump to his boss for explanation, but Gibbs is already on the move.  
  
“Boss…”  
  
“Home now, McGee! Only answer my calls!”  
  
Tim rises from his chair, still enthralled by the image on the plasma.  
  
“But boss, that’s Tony.”


	7. Chapter 7

**4:09am – Residence of Tony DiNozzo – Judiciary Square – Washington, DC –**  
  
 _Tony waits on the cold cement of the pitch-dark Baltimore docks, clutching the Glock Carerras handed him on the way over for the job. Just on the other side of the river, the Baltimore city lights sparkle, reflecting like tiny jewels in the waters of the Patapsco. But with where he stands, it might as well be on the other side of the world. A soft breeze blows in off the river, filling his lungs with moist air._  
  
 _He hears a low exhale near him. Sighing, he glances down at the man kneeling on the cement._  
  
 _It takes him a few moments to remember exactly how he ended up on the docks like this. He was dead asleep when Carreras woke him, pulling him from his grimy apartment into the soggy, pre-dawn air. While he’d never been tapped for a job like this before, he didn’t have to ask where they were headed. Carreras has a reputation for dealing with troublemakers in the dead of night, stealing predator and prey from their beds, handing off a weapon and a prisoner on the way to his own._  
  
 _Tony turns the gun over in his hand, feeling the tiny divets on the unworn grip._  
  
 _The weapon is brand new, its metal stock and fresh._  
  
 _Carreras isn’t one to take chances._  
  
 _Tony hopes his partner got the message for a midnight witness transfer in time. While Carreras forces his hired help to take down their targets alone, he has another person inspect the work to ensure a complete job._  
  
 _The cartel’s own set of checks and balances._  
  
 _“Can we just get this over with?” the thin man kneeling on the ground requests._  
  
 _Tony runs his hand over his face, wondering how so many young men have shared the same turbulent journey as Curly Echeverria. Not satisfied with the comfortable income they earn dealing cocaine, they divert a shipment to sell on the side._  
  
 _They always seem to think they will never get caught, yet the Patapsco claims them all._  
  
 _“Why? You got somewhere to be?”_  
  
 _“If I say yeah, you gonna to let me go or what?”_  
  
 _When another cool breeze rolls off the water, Echeverria heaves. The splash of his dinner against the concrete turns Tony’s stomach. He holds his hand to his face to ward off the smell and turns away._  
  
 _Just under the lap of the dock water, he hears an approaching car._  
  
 _He points his gun into the alleyway, grinning at the unmarked police car that emerges. Within seconds, a plainclothes detective climbs out. Tony grabs Echeverria’s bound arms, yanking him to his feet. When he pushes the drug dealer into his partner’s outstretched hands, they share a grin._  
  
 _“You still good?” Danny Walden asks._  
  
 _“Holy shit, you’re a freaking cop?!” Echeverria gasps. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. Carreras is gonna -”_  
  
 _“Kill me when he finds out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Last guy told me that too,” Tony says, shaking Danny’s hand. “Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”_  
  
 _“Yeah, well, we’re used to midnight rendez-vous, not these four am ones. Let’s not make this a habit, okay?”_  
  
 _He shrugs, waving as Walden shoves Echeverria into the backseat of the cruiser._  
  
 _“Well, thanks for stopping by,” he grins, starting back to the docks to stage his murder scene._  
  
 _Walden grips the passenger door, staring at Tony._  
  
 _“You sure you’re okay?”_  
  
 _He nods slowly, watching his partner climb into the car before it disappears back down the alley. While he doesn’t enjoy lying to Danny, he just didn’t have the time to confess that the lines between his undercover and true identity are beginning to blur._  
  
 _If he tells him what’s really going on, he’ll be pulled off the case in a heartbeat…_  
  
 _Since he’s the only undercover cop so far that hasn’t needed an emergency extraction, he has to finish the operation._  
  
 _Realizing he wastes time, Tony rushes to the edge of the dock. He fires two rounds into the river then allows it to swallow the gun as well. To stage his scene, he arranges a few metal drums and wood pallets to show the story of a desperate man who fought to stay alive._  
  
 _When he is certain that his work looks convincing enough, Tony focuses on calming his racing heart. Every time he sneaks a witness into police custody, his body rebels with an onslaught of adrenaline mixed with abject terror. His hands have barely stopped shaking when the headlights of a black SUV retrace the police car’s earlier path. He squints against the brightness as Carreras’ second in command slithers out of the driver’s seat. Fidel Ramos approaches Tony, clouded in the fog that billows off the Patapsco._  
  
 _“Is it done?”_  
  
 _“Yeah, I took care of him. Didn’t think Curly had it in him to put up a fight but…” Tony trails off, gesturing to the overturned barrels and the river._  
  
 _“Carreras will be pleased.”_  
  
Furious pounding echoes through his head as the night on the dock melts away. When Tony sits bolt upright in his bed, the first thing he notices is the sweat soaked in his sheets. With a trembling hand, he wipes at the trail that slides down his back. Blinking away the memories of his past-life, he checks the numbers that blaze on his alarm clock.  
  
Realizing it’s still the dead of night, he leans against the headboard. While he breathes slowly, he buries his face in his hands. The knocking on his door resumes but he doesn’t move, figuring it’s just one of his neighbor’s drunken friends arriving for an impromptu party. No matter how many times he explains that 2E isn’t 2F, they still seem to mistake his apartment for the college student's who lives across the hall. While he doesn’t usually mind being roused in the middle of night by beautiful women, he prefers that it lead somewhere more than just a finger point in the opposite direction.  
  
The knocking finally stops. Tony rests his head against his knees, surprised to find that his forehead is still slick, but his pulse finally slows.  
  
The face of his phone lights up on his nightstand as the pounding starts again.  
  
He reaches after it, swallowing hard when he sees Gibbs on the caller ID.  
  
“DiNozzo,” he answers, unnerved by the tremor in his voice.  
  
“Open your damn door.”  
  
Not needing to be told twice, Tony makes it halfway across his bedroom before he realizes that Gibbs might prefer him clothed. He grabs a pair of boxers and lounge pants off the floor, pulls them on and rushes through his living room. When he sees his boss’ angry face through the peephole, Tony tenses and yanks open the door.  
  
They stare at each other for several moments.  
  
“You gonna invite me in or what?”  
  
“Oh yeah, sure. Come on in, Boss.” He steps out of the way and flicks on a light.  
  
While Tony blinks away the last cobwebs of sleep, Gibbs slides into the living room, double-taking at the interior. His eyes scan the plush leather sofa to the piano in the corner to the mahogany bookshelves Tony had built specifically for his movie collection. When he meets Gibbs’ gaze, Tony knows his home isn’t quite what his boss expected.  
  
He runs his hand through his damp hair, fairly certain that Gibbs isn’t here to leer at his possessions.  
  
“Uh, boss?”  
  
“Anthony Masterson.”  
  
Tony’s face pales and he back-tracks until he bumps into his sofa. “Boss, that was a long time ago…”  
  
“McGee found a bank account registered to him. Got a whole lotta money stashed in the Caymans.”  
  
Gibbs flicks open a music box on the bookshelf. The tinny melody fills the apartment and Tony feels every note cut through him. He presses his hand against the sofa, gripping the leather until his knuckles ache. When the song ends, he realizes that he's holding his breath.  
  
“Boss, that’s not me. Okay, Anthony Masterson that is me. Well, it _was_ me. I used that identity during an undercover operation years ago. But the account, the money, it’s not mine. I had no idea, boss, I don’t know what’s -”  
  
“Yeah, Tony, I know,” Gibbs interrupts, facing his senior agent.  
  
Tony sighs quietly, uncertain how he woke from one nightmare into another.  
  
“You knew earlier about – “  
  
“I didn’t know anything. Well, maybe I did, but I wasn’t sure,” Tony says, running his foot along the grain of his floor. “Look, boss, I recognized the tattoos on the guy from the surveillance tape. They’re from the Angel Caido, the same cartel that I went undercover with back in Baltimore. I thought…I thought it was just a coincidence.”  
  
“Rule 39.”  
  
“Yeah, but what are the odds? Why would they be in DC?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
“Boss, I don’t know. I didn’t know about the bank account, and I don’t know why they’re here, I swear.”  
  
Tony raises his eyebrows when Gibbs heads into the kitchen, stopping at the sight of the stainless steel appliances and marble counters.  
“Well, start simple. You know who could be behind the account?” Gibbs says, dropping to his knees so he can inspect the interior of a cabinet.  
  
Tony frowns, sliding into a bar stool and leaning on the counter. The stone is freezing.  
  
“It’s a long story.”  
  
He listens to Gibbs rifle through the appliances that he never uses. When his boss finally emerges, he holds up a coffeemaker still in its box. He places it on the counter, and Tony doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he can’t even pronounce the brand name, let alone use the machine.  
“Get started,” Gibbs orders, gesturing at the container, “we’ve got all night.”  
  
\--  
  
 **6:32am – Just Outside NCIS Headquarters - Washington, DC –**  
  
Climbing out of his Ford Taurus, FBI Special Agent Tobias Fornell stares at the NCIS building that lies at the heart of the Washington Navy Yard. Even though it’s still dark, the first rays of the morning light are beginning to burn away the fog that ebbs off the Anacostia. A blustery wind pushes off the water, sending a shiver through him.  
  
He’s thankful the Hoover building isn’t located anywhere near the river.  
  
Ignoring the concrete walkway that leads to the entrance, he heads across the small patch of grass that separates the parking lot from the sidewalk. He pauses by the double glass doors, admiring the Yard’s distinct lack of scenery. Even a few leafless trees would spruce up the lifeless slabs of concrete and brick.  
  
He shakes his head, certain that whatever detours his morning commute can’t be good. When his phone rang nearly an hour ago, he was still in bed. If he hadn’t been waiting for a phone call from Emily during her trip abroad, he would’ve let his voicemail pick up. His first mistake had been answering without checking the caller ID. The second was actually engaging the man on the other end in conversation.  
  
 _When Gibbs actually says ‘please,’ it must be important…that’s if he really knows what the word means._  
  
Fornell passes through the entrance, pausing at the security desk for a cursory ID check. After he enters his name and badge number onto the log, the bored-looking guard hands him a visitor’s pass. He heads to the elevator, surprised to find Gibbs already waiting for him. A cup of coffee is pressed into his outstretched hand and the pair slips into the elevator.  
  
When he samples his beverage, he spits the liquid into the cup and stares incredulously at Gibbs.  
  
“Did you call me all the way down here to poison me, Jethro?”  
  
Gibb smiles wryly, barely allowing the doors to close before he hits the emergency button. The tiny box shudders to a stop, its back-up lights flickering. Fornell studies his friend’s tense features under the dim glow. If he didn’t know any better, he might guess that Gibbs is nervous.  
  
“So how’s Emily?” Gibbs asks, launching into his normal pleasantries.  
  
“Good.  She’s touring Italy with our ex-wife.”  
  
“Must be nice.”  
“Yeah, not that I’ll ever find out…I already paid for one trip, not sure if I can afford another.” Fornell frowns, desperation for caffeine triumphing as he hazards another sip of the vile beverage. “So, what’s going on?”  
  
An uneasy silence envelopes them while Gibbs stares at Fornell, trying to determine whether he can trust the FBI agent. While they share a congenial working relationship on cases, both men hold their teams and, occasionally, their agency’s interests before their friendship. Even so, they would prefer each other on their sides during a crisis.  
  
“Look, we both know you didn’t call me down here to talk about Emily or she who won’t be named.”  
  
“It’s about DiNozzo.”  
  
“Ah, so how is DiNutso? What’d he do this time?”  
  
“Have you heard anything about the Angel Caido cartel?”  
  
“You want the short version or the long one?”  
  
Gibbs checks his watch. “Let’s keep it short.”  
  
“Well, some newbie detective in Baltimore got assigned a long-shot case to infiltrate the Angel Caido. Rumor has it, the kid got real close to the head of the cartel. Right before the state went to press charges, some hotshot gunning for a promotion turned the case federal. Unfortunately, he didn’t dot his i’s and cross his t’s and the cartel’s lawyer managed to get the charges dropped. Illegal searches and seizures. When the prosecutor tried to refile, the whole thing turned into a freaking circus. Witnesses went missing, evidence vanished…nobody knew what the hell was going on. The judge threw the whole damn case out, again. I thought everybody knew about that. One of the FBI’s greatest screw-ups, right?”  
  
Gibbs shrugs, and Fornell wonders how he can’t recall the numerous newscasts about the investigation and the ill-fated trial. The snafu cost one agent his life and many others their careers.  
  
“That it?” Gibbs asks, haunted eyes meeting Fornell’s.  
  
He runs his hands over his face, deciding not to keep his additional information from the only person he considers a friend. That kind of intel might earn him a favor sometime later…if he’ll ever be able to convince Gibbs to let him collect.  
  
“We caught some chatter lately that the Angel Caido is moving south to DC. We’ve been keeping an eye on the leader, Enrico Carreras, for years but he’s still untouchable after those past crimes. There’s been rumors that he’s been branching out into other areas of the criminal underworld, but it’s all word of mouth from unreliable witnesses. What’s all this have to do with DiNozzo?”  
  
“He was that cop.”  
  
“What cop?”  
  
“The deep cover cop in Baltimore,” Gibbs explains, leaning against the elevator wall.  
  
Mimicking the stance, Fornell presses his free hand against his forehead. While Gibbs silently sips his coffee, Fornell glances at the ceiling.  
“Okay, but why bring this up now?”  
  
“Found a bank account with a whole lotta money that’s linked to DiNozzo’s undercover alias. He seems to think that Carreras is the only person who would do that.”  
  
“So you’re saying a drug kingpin stole an undercover cop’s identity for his newest business venture? Why the hell would he do that?” When Gibbs simply shrugs, Fornell’s features tighten. “Okay, fine. Any idea what he might be into?”  
  
“Got a dead girl with no ID that’s been raped and beaten. What do you think?”  
  
Fornell swallows audibly, leaning his head against the wall.  
  
“I’ll make some calls. Have McGee e-mail me your investigation so far.”  
  
Gibbs nods, releasing the emergency stop. When the elevator returns to the ground floor, he slams his foot against the doors to hold them open.  
  
“Mind seeing what DiNozzo’s alias has been up to as well?”  
  
“Any particular reason?”  
  
When Gibbs shrugs again, Fornell opts to chalk it up to that fabled gut of his.  
  
“You just never know.”  
  
\--  
  
 **7:41am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Still unsettled by the previous night’s event, Tim peers off the elevator to find the bullpen unoccupied. He heads to his desk, unsure how how he managed to get out of bed this morning. Despite his original fear that his discovery would keep him awake all night, he ended up sleeping more soundly that he had in months. Unfortunately, his brain had no chance to process the situation yet.  
  
 _What am I supposed to say to Tony?_  
  
Even though he knows that Tony would never harbor a secret bank account, the simple fact that one associated with his face even exists leaves Tim uneasy. As he plops into his chair, he wonders how long it will take the director to find out. Once that happens, there’s no telling what could come next.  
  
Tim desperately wants to protect his co-workers, but he doesn’t even know where to start.  
  
Rubbing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes, he sighs. There has to be something he can do to shield his team from the fallout of his find. Not even Tony deserves to have his career ended like this. Despite the fact that he relentlessly torments him about everything, from his lack of dating skills to playing video games in his boxers to his love of Nutter Butters, Tim does occasionally look up to the man.  
  
He glances at his computer, knowing all the information lingers on the cookies in his hard drive. All he has to do is scrub the history of the search from his machine.  
  
 _I can’t believe I’m about to destroy evidence._  
  
He closes his eyes, forcing himself to act. While his computer boots up, he does a quick check to make sure the office is still deserted. Although he knows no one would question his work, just checking for potential snoopers comforts him. The more time he spends in the virtual world, covertly poking into forbidden databases and amassing information, the more paranoid he becomes about his activities in the real one.  
  
Tim pops a flash drive into the USB slot, quickly downloading the information about Tony’s alias onto it. With the evidence backed up, he removes all traces of the search from his hard disk.  
  
Just as he finalizes the deletion with a reboot, Gibbs hustles into the bullpen, nodding his greeting at Tim. With his hands full of two coffee cups, the team leader places one on his desk so he can rummage through the drawers.  
  
“Morning, boss. Where’s  - ”  
  
“Won’t be in until later. Send that stuff you found about Masterson to Fornell. Find everything about that name you can.”  
  
“Boss? That bank account? Is it really...” He can’t bear to finish his thought.  
  
“Yes and no,” Gibbs answers while Tim’s brow furrows. “Some dirtbag stole his former undercover identity.”  
  
On his way out of the bullpen, Gibbs places the extra cup of coffee by Tim’s keyboard. Surprised by the repeated uncharacteristic kindness, he feels the cold liquid when he grips the paper cup. He gags at the sugar-laden beverage that hits his tongue.  
  
The drink finds its way into the trash since it wasn’t meant for him anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**7:52am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Gibbs feels the thump of Abby’s music before the elevator doors even open. Thankful that she finally moved on from the tomcat chorus, he rushes down the hallway. When he ducks through the entrance, he fully expects to find her hanging from the ceiling with a bungee cord or sacrificing pipet tips to the evidence gods. Yet nothing prepares him for what he really finds.  
  
Abby sits quietly in her office, finalizing a case report.  
  
“Heya, Abs, whaddya got?” he grunts, wondering whether something’s wrong.  
  
“Almost done my report,” she replies, voice laden with sleep. “I just can’t - ” she yawns violently, bracing herself against her chair “ – seem to wake up. I have this feeling. It’s weird, like I’m moving in slow motion and the whole world is speeding past me. It’s totally not normal. I’m usually a lot faster than this. I ran a chemical profile on the reformulated Caf-Pow. You know what I found out? There’s only half the amount of caffeine in it as opposed to the original formulation. Half the caffeine, Gibbs. Tell me, how am I supposed to live like this?!”  
  
Raising his eyebrow, he glances down at the coffee cup in his hands. When she takes it, she loudly sniffs the contents, pushing the cup back at him. Just when she starts to make a face, she yawns again.  
  
“How do you drink that stuff, Gibbs? It smells like burning tires. Not the kind of burning rubber when you peel out of an intersection while you’re drag racing your pick-up. More like a pile of tires that got set on fire. You know, my uncle JimBob once tried to use our barbeque pit to get rid of his monster truck tires. Smelled like that the whole summer. I don’t - ” Another yawn interrupts her ramble and she blinks, trying to remember the point to her story.  
  
“You got anything, Abs?”  
  
“You betcha.”  
  
When she grins, the crinkle by her eye accentuates the bags underneath them that even her thick foundation can’t hide. She scrambles out of her seat, grabbing his arm as she slowly leads him to the ballistics hood. With a few clicks on the computer, she displays four identical bullets, then retrieves the bagged gun from the bench.  
  
“The two on the left are the ones Ducky pulled out of Chase, the one in the right middle is from the teenager, and the one on the right is my test shot. Even though Ducky’s three are badly damaged - ” Abby points to the bullets retrieved from the bodies, “- there’s just enough striations present for me to match them to this gun. That plus the fact that there were three empty casings in the revolver and three unspent rounds, and it was in the teenager’s hands, leads me to believe this killed her and Chase. Plus...”  
  
Abby pauses dramatically, gaze fixated on the weapon.  Gibbs stares at her, waiting impatiently for her conclusion. When he taps her shoulder, she yelps and they both jump.  
  
“Plus what, Abs?”  
  
“I don’t know.” She laughs. “Guess I fell asleep with my eyes open again. Little trick I learned in high school to get through English. My teacher always used to - ”  
  
“Abs.”  
  
“Oh yeah. The powder residue from the teenager’s hand shows that she definitely fired that gun,” Abby explains, tossing the weapon back into the hood. “Her fingerprints are on it, but I couldn’t get a hit off them in any database. Tried ‘em all, too.”  
  
“Did you think you would?”  
  
“Nope. Duckman says that she’s young, like sixteen. But it’s possible she might be older or younger than that. Based on her bone density, it appears that she had a really, really bad diet which might be why she’s so tiny. Like didn’t know what milk was, bad. So realistically, she could be anywhere from fourteen to twenty one.”  
  
“And…?”  
  
“I think I might know where she’s from!” She drags Gibbs back to her main lab bench. “I ran those metal filings from her crown that Jimmy brought me and I found this.”  
  
When she displays a chemical profile on her screen, she nods over her shoulder as though to include her mass spectrometer in the conversation. Gibbs does a double-take between her and the monitor, pulling a sip of his coffee as he awaits the clarification.  
  
“What’d you find, Abs?”  
  
“Why, Gibbs, I thought you’d never ask.” She grins, her dark lips accenting the whiteness of her teeth. “Though I can’t take any of the credit for Major Mass Spec’s work, the crown contains copper, lead, zinc, nickel and trace amounts of beryllium. All these elements are components of base metal. But why is that important, you ask? Well, beryllium is banned by the FDA for use in dental work. It’s primarily seen in Western Russia and other parts of Asia.”  
  
“So she’s Russian?”  
  
“Or she had dental work in Russia or some other Asian country at some point. If you want confirmation, I need a day or two.”  
  
When Gibbs glances at her, she pulls two evidence jars off her bench. One contains a small piece of bone, submersed in a clear liquid, while the other contains a tooth. Knowing those contents are macabre even for the lab bat, he raises his eyebrows.  
  
 _Hadn’t known her to take trophies. Guess it was just a matter of time._  
  
“I found a paper from a guy at UCSF about understanding human migration from thousands of years ago based off the chemical components from teeth and bone. I know it’s a bit of a long-shot, but I figured that I might be able to apply it to find out where she came from. I can use the tooth to tell you where she grew up and the bone to tell you where she’s been for the past ten years.”  
  
“You are what you eat.”  
  
 _If that’s true, I sure as hell don’t want to know what DiNozzo’s made out of._  
  
“You betcha,” she drawls, the words barely coherent as her eyes droop.  
  
Wrapping his arm around Abby’s waist, Gibbs leads her back into the inner office. With a long night behind her and less caffeine in her veins than usual, she barely stays awake as Gibbs eases her onto the futon. While she cuddles against the skull-shaped pillow, he crouches next to her and pulls her blanket up to her chin. Her eyelids flutter and he presses his lips to her forehead.  
  
When he starts to stand, Abby’s hand grips his forearm and her heavy eyes flick to meet his.  
  
“This case, it’s not hinky.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Well, the fact that it’s not hinky makes it hinky. The gun’s in her hand, she killed him then she killed herself. The only thing that’s hinky is that we don’t know who she is, but it’s not important to close out the murder. You sign the report and it’s done. But...”  
  
“Not signing anything yet, Abs,” Gibbs assures her.  
  
“Exactly. There’s something more here. There has to be. Whenever it’s not hinky, there’s always something else. Do you even know what it is yet? Do you…”  
  
The rest of her thought is unintelligible as she drifts to sleep. Nodding slowly, Gibbs kisses her forehead again and rocks to his feet. He pauses by the door to watch the even rise and fall of her chest.  
  
“There’s always something more, Abs.”  
  
\--  
  
 **8:16am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Tim sighs quietly as he leans back in his chair, watching the screens of another reboot cycle on his monitor. Since Gibbs asked him to e-mail Fornell about last night’s discover, he had to load the information back to his computer. As soon as the boot process finishes, he launches his e-mail.  
  
He exhales slowly, reminding himself that research takes time. If the agitation that bubbles in his chest is anything like his boss feels on a case, he thinks he will be more sympathetic the next time Gibbs demands their results instantaneously.  
  
A message pops up and his gut tightens until he realizes that it's only Abby's forensics report. Marking a face he opens the attachment and skims the document. Her findings confirm the team’s original thoughts. Their only loose end is Jane Doe’s identity which they seem unlikely to uncover.  
  
Some investigators might consider it an inconsequential detail at this stage of an almost closed case, ready to send the remains to the free cemetery for unclaimed bodies and her information to the Doe Network…to let someone else take care of the difficult legwork. But Tim realizes that his boss will be remiss to banish her into cold-case oblivion right away.  
  
 _Gibbs isn’t the type of man to silence the dead…even if it would let me bury the account linked to Tony._  
  
He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think about the situation.  
  
Reloading his e-mail again, Tim grimaces at the multitude of new spam that appears.  
  
“McGee,” Ziva asks, reminding him of her presence, “have you heard of the Sand Dollar Bank?”  
  
When his eyes meet her earnest gaze, he feels the blood drain from his cheeks.  
  
“Y-y-y-yeah, once. A l-l-l-long t-t-time ago, yeah. W-w-why?”  
  
Realizing there’s still a link on his computer, he erases the e-mail he sent to Fornell in addition to all the spam. As Ziva approaches his desk, he minimizes the window, trying to look busy with a blank Post-It by his mouse. Stopping in front of him, she watches him closely.  
  
“It is quite interesting. I used the institution on a few deals that I brokered while on undercover assignments for Mossad. Only the most meticulous arms dealers I associated with chose this bank for its complex security systems. It is said to be pregnant.”  
  
“Impregnable,” Tim corrects, pointing to the paper in Ziva’s hand. “But why are you bringing this up now?”  
  
“Well, I found it on a bank statement that I retrieved from Quinn’s house last night.”  
  
“How’d you get that?”  
  
“I found it and took it.”  
  
Tim’s mouth gapes. “Ziva, you know that’s an illegal search and seizure, right?”  
  
“I did not search anything, nor did I seize. I only took this paper.  His house is a hen house anyway. He will not miss his statement.”  
  
“Pig sty, but that’s not the point.”  
  
Gibbs comes rushing into the bullpen. “Either of you got one?”  
  
“Yes, Gibbs, I believe I might have something. I found..” she pauses, staring at Tim, “…a bank statement from Malcolm Quinn that shows he wires a few thousand dollars every month to the Sand Dollar Bank.”  
  
“That the one that Chase used?”  
  
Tim snatches the paper from Ziva’s hand. “Yeah, same account and everything, but boss, we can't use it. She took it - ”  
  
“Don’t care how she got it, McGee. I want him in interrogation now!”  
  
\--  
  
 **10:36am – Interrogation – NCIS Headquarters, Washington DC –**  
  
Clasping a file with Quinn’s newly printed financials to his chest, Tim waits in the corner of interrogation for a front row seat to Gibbs’ interview. He inhales deliberately, catching the scent of fresh ink that mingles with the sweat cascading from their suspect. While Tony always considers the stench that rises in this room to be that of success, Tim associates it with desperation.  
  
When people are ready to lose everything, they grasp for whatever leverage they have.  
  
He glances at Quinn’s tense face, frowning at the beads of perspiration that form a puddle on the table. Gibbs slides the picture of the dead teenager further from the sweat slick and Quinn’s eyes follow it. Tim remembers the look on his face when Gibbs first dropped the picture on the table.  
  
 _He knows exactly what’s going on._  
  
Shifting in his chair, Gibbs continues to stare at the suspect.  
  
“You know guys, I’m gonna be late for work.” Quinn frowns, gesturing to the hardhat in his lap.  
  
Gibbs shrugs imperceptibly and reaches for his coffee. When Quinn’s anxious gaze finds Tim’s, he mimics his boss’ shrug, crossing his arms tighter to his chest. The squeaking of Quinn’s work boot against the chair grows louder.  
  
 _G-d, I hope this guy doesn’t play poker…_  
  
“Okay, okay, I get it now. They do this on all those TV shows. You’re going all good cop, bad cop on me. Guess you’re the good one, huh?” He grins at Gibbs.  
  
Tim barely hides his laugh as a cough.  
  
“Yeah.” Gibbs nods. Amusement flickers over his face.  
  
“Makes sense then.” Quinn points an accusatory finger at Tim. “He just looks nasty.”  
  
'Coughing’ again, the junior agent catches the reflection of Gibbs’ glare in the mirror. He knows that he needs to quell his laughter before he gets banished back to the viewing room. Since this is his first chance at assisting Gibbs on an interrogation, he doesn’t want to wreck his future chances. Tim sucks in a deep breath to compose himself.  
  
“So how do you know Bailey Chase?”  
  
“From around the neighborhood, you know barbeques and stuff. We shared the same workout routine.”  
  
Gibbs assesses Quinn’s physique and nods unconvinced.  
  
“You know the girl?”  
  
Gibbs slides the picture back in front of Quinn. Even though he doesn’t look at it again, the sweat begins to drip onto the image of the lifeless face.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Didja know your buddy wired money to the Caymans?”  
  
“What?! Bailey!? Really?" His voice jumps a full octave. "Do you guys know why?”  
  
“It’s the same account you send money to.”  
  
The color drains from Quinn’s face. Tim steps forward and slams his copy of financial records on the table. As the thud sounds through the room, he narrows his eyes, trying to portray the bad cop that Quinn thinks he is. He leans forward, face mere inches from the suspect’s.  
  
He pales further, fingers shaking as he picks up the papers. Tim silently slides back to his corner, wiping the sweat that forms on his palms onto his khakis.  
  
“Wh-wh-what is this?” Quinn glances wide-eyed at Tim.  
  
“The money you wired to the Sand Dollar Bank every month for two years. Who are you sending it to?”  
  
Gibbs swivels in his seat to look at Tim; the shock on his face is quickly replaced by pride. When the junior agent takes a step forward again, Quinn shoots out of his chair and paces the length of the room. Wringing his hands, his terrified eyes jump from Gibbs to Tim and back again.  
  
“I-I-I don’t know.”  
  
“What’s it for?”  
  
He stops in front of the mirror, placing his palms flat against the glass. When he shakes his head, his eyes close and his features tighten.  
  
“What is it for?” Gibbs roars, slamming his fists against the table.  
  
“Girls.”  
  
Quinn hiccups, tears streaming down his cheeks as he presses his face against the glass. Tim raises his eyebrows at Gibbs’ stony expression, uncertain about where the interview just headed. When he glances back to the picture on the table, his heart plummets.  
  
“What do you mean, girls _?”_  
  
The suspect turns to meet Tim’s wide eyes, hugging his arms tightly to his chest.  
  
“Girls.” He waves his hands as though it answers the question.  
  
“How do you get them?” Gibbs asks.  
  
“You get a phone number,” Quinn says meekly, sliding back into his chair. “When you call it, you tell the guy on the other line what kind you want, when and where. Whenever, wherever, whatever you want happens. When she shows up, she gives you a new number for the next one.”  
  
“Whatever you want?”  
  
“Yeah, you know. Anything goes and no questions asked. You pay a set amount for a certain number of hours. They come to you and leave when you’re done.  It’s convenient _,_ ” Quinn says.  
  
Tim swallows audibly.  
  
“And Chase?”  
  
“Met him when one of the guys messed up a few months back and brought the wrong girl to my house. You know how all those houses look the same on our block. After we figured out the problem, I met Bailey and well, we became friends.”  
  
“Where’d they come from?”  
  
“Don’t know and didn’t care.”  
  
When Quinn shrugs half-heartedly, Gibbs pushes the image of the teenager forward. “And her?”  
  
“Showed up about six months ago. She came a few times.”  
  
 “You remember anything about her?”  
  
“She didn’t speak a lick of English.” Quinn stops to carefully consider his words as he anxiously glances between the agents “ And she didn’t cry. You always know the new ones because they cry.”  
  
Tim sees Gibbs ball his hands into fists under the table and takes a step forward, ready to stop his boss from attacking the suspect. Every part of him knows that once Gibbs starts he won’t stop until Quinn’s either in the hospital…or dead. While he fully supports his boss’ vigilante justice, he’d like an opportunity to turn off the cameras first.  
  
“Who brings them?”  
  
“I can’t tell you. They’ll kill me.”  
  
“If you don’t tell us, I’ll leave you alone with him.” Gibbs jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Tim.  
  
Tim squares his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the suspect like he’s seen Gibbs do so many times before. Avoiding the angry gaze, Quinn presses his lips together. When Gibbs pushes his chair back, the suspect nearly leaps across the table. He grips the team leader’s forearm and shakes his head.  
  
“I don’t know, I swear. It’s always a different man, but they all have the same tattoos. A star on the neck and a buncha bones on their arm. I didn’t want to know so I didn’t ask, and they didn’t say. Bailey used to call them the fallen angels, but I never asked. That’s all I know about them, I swear to G-d.”  
  
Gibbs jumps out of his chair. Tim trails him into the hallway, uncertain as to whether he should know what just happened. Gibbs leaves him in the hallway, stalking towards the bullpen.  
  
Tim’s gut twists.  
  
 _I bet it has to do with Tony…_  
  
Trying to clear his head, Tim takes the long way back to the bullpen. The circuitous route through the staff lounge to the vending machines on the opposite side of the building helps him to smother the disquiet that breeds in his stomach. When he finds the jump drive in his white-knuckled fist, he leans against the nearest wall, feeling the cool plaster freeze the sweat on his back.  
  
 _Could Tony be one of them?_  
  
 _All these years that we’ve worked together. I don’t even know what to think anymore._  
  
 _All these years that I’ve been the butt of his jokes, that stupid frat-boy humor. The times that I’ve second guessed myself when Tony disproves  
my theories with a single piece of evidence.  Every time I torrented a movie so that I might actually understand what the heck he’s talking about with those darn quotes that fly out of his mouth like spitballs. _  
  
_All these years that I’ve tried to mimic the instincts that comes as natural to Tony as breathing._  
  
 _All these years that I’ve looked up to him…_  
  
He stares blankly at the jump drive in his hand. When Tim tastes the acid that creeps onto his tongue, he shoves the drive back into his pocket.  
  
 _It just can’t be Tony…_


	9. Chapter 9

**12:07pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Arms crossed as he waits by the plasma, Gibbs listens to the quiet click of Ziva and Tim’s keyboards while they compile their reports; they clearly follow his order to take extra time on their work prior to submission. Since the forensic and autopsy reports are already on his desk, he knows it will just be a matter of time before the Director asks him to sign out the investigation.  
  
He doesn’t need to read them to know they reached the same conclusion he did at the scene.  
  
While the case itself is clearly open and shut, the amount of circumstantial evidence gives Gibbs pause. He just can’t pick up a pen to close the case out until he makes sense of the minute details : the girl’s identity, the men with the tattoos of the Angel Caido, the strange interview with Quinn and Tony’s unsettling reaction.  
  
It all leaves his gut burning.  
  
 _If Fornell doesn’t bring me something good, I’ll need more than bourbon to sleep tonight._  
  
He pulls a swig of his coffee, rolling his shoulders while he waits. When he notices several agents moving past the bullpen with their lunchbags, he wonders whether Tony’s finished interviewing Chase’s co-workers yet. He starts after his cell, ready to bark orders at his senior agent, yet he stops short at the memory of the anguished glint in the younger man’s eyes while they discussed his undercover stint with the Angel Caido until dawn. Although he doesn’t know everything, Gibbs figures he can justify lateness once in Tony’s career.  
  
The minute slowly tick by as he studies the images on the plasma.  
  
When the elevator finally dings, Gibbs doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here, trying to make sense of nothing. There’s a pause in Tim’s typing while he peers over the partition for a glance at Tony.  
  
When Fornell and an older female agent round the corner, Tim leans back into his chair, obviously deflated. Gibbs’ gut bubbles at their arrival. Before he can ask for an explanation, Fornell shakes his head. The woman heads into the bullpen, apprising Gibbs’ team.  
  
She rakes her hand through her loose, grey curls. “I thought you said he’d be here, Tobias.”  
  
Aggravation lights on Fornell’s face.  
  
“Well, its normal business hours and he works here, so I assumed - ”  
  
“You know what happens when you assume.”  
  
She smiles politely at Tim’s furrowed brow and Ziva’s expressionless face.  
  
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Gibbs asks.  
  
“Associate Deputy Director of the Inspection Division, Veera Colvin.” The woman offers her hand to him, adjusting the lapel of her suit coat when he ignores the gesture. “I take it you’re Agent Gibbs. Your reputation precedes you.”  
  
“Never hearda you.”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Colvin replies. “I tend to be a bit more behind the scenes than you’re probably used to. But I can assure you that I’m just as effective as you at my job. I found out recently we have some…mutual interests.”  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“You’re familiar with the Angel Caido?” Gibbs stares blankly at her while she moves through the bullpen. “Rumor has it that they’re moving down this way from Baltimore.”  
  
“And what’s this have to do with us?”  
  
“Anthony Masterson.” She grins when Gibbs doesn’t react. “You’re one hell of a poker player, Agent Gibbs. I’m sure you already figured out by now that your agent went undercover with them when he was in Baltimore. I need him to go back in.”  
  
“Not gonna happen.”  
  
When Gibbs shakes his head, she moves down the length of the bullpen, hips swaying. Gibbs glances at Fornell to find him studying the top of his shoes. She runs her hand along Tim’s desk, smiling predatorily back at Gibbs.  
  
“I suppose this youngling here happens to be Agent McGee, correct? Degrees in computer forensics from MIT and biomedical engineering from Johns Hopkins. Talk about the best of the absolute best, Agent Gibbs. All those smarts and all these computers, he probably tends to get a bit bored with gathering evidence the traditional way, huh?” She leans forward, inches from Tim's face, and he inhales sharply. “You look like you’d enjoy a challenge, Agent McGee. You been in our database lately?”  
  
Tim’s cheeks blaze as he turns back to his computer, fingers smashing against the keyboard. While Colvin's lips stretch into an amused smile, she turns her attention to Ziva’s desk. Hand gripped tightly around the letter opener she uses to threaten Tony, the Israeli glowers at her.  
  
“Well, that makes you the infamous Ziva David then. The only woman on a man’s team, and a Mossad liaison as well. I’m still not sure how you fit in the agency and which international rules Director Shepard bends to keep you.  That’s not important though. I did hear that you like to get a little violent, right? But then again I wouldn’t expect anything less from the daughter of Eli David. Is it true that you killed your own brother?”  
  
Ziva's knuckles turn white around the letter opener.  
  
“What the hell do you want?” Gibbs growls.  
  
“I need Agent DiNozzo to help us infiltrate the Angel Caido again. I expect - ”  
  
“Already told you, that’s not my call.”  
  
“That’s where you’re wrong, Agent Gibbs. I know your demons, too. If you want to keep them buried, I suggest you talk to your agent.”  
  
When he closes his eyes, he clenches his jaw so tightly that it pops.  
  
 _The heat of the noon sun beats on his back while the rocks on the hillside grind into his stomach. Eye pressed against the sight of the rifle that’s become his savior, he waits for the truck to pass. As he sees the face of the man who killed his family, Gibbs exerts just enough pressure to deploy a round from his weapon. The crack of the shot sends birds flying and he rolls against the hill, squinting at the sun._  
  
 _The act that motivated him for so long leaves him surprisingly hollow._  
  
 _His girls are still dead._  
  
“I can’t help you,” he rasps.  
  
“While you might mind going to answering for your sins, I doubt Officer David would appreciate being deported or that Agent McGee would fare well in prison.”  
  
Tim’s audible swallow twists Gibbs gut.  
  
“I’ve watched the cartel run amok in Baltimore," Colvin says, eyes fixed on Gibbs. "Drugs pour into that city every day and no one can stop them. They’re considered to be untouchable after that debacle with Agent Losko. If he hadn’t interrupted Agent DiNozzo’s undercover work, Enrico Carreras would be in prison by now. Since we’ve heard chatter that they’re heading to DC, there’s no telling what they can do down here. It’s only a matter of time before they bribe the right officials and – “  
  
“That’s not really my problem.”  
  
“Look, Jethro - ” Fornell shifts his weight slightly “ - DiNozzo’s the only one who’s been able to infiltrate those guys without raising any suspicions. Most cops who’ve tried to follow in his footsteps have ended up with an emergency extraction or in the morgue. Hell, the last agent we sent in is missing and presumed dead.”  
  
Colvin flinches visibly.  
  
“Given Agent DiNozzo’s history and that his cover’s intact, I find it prudent to send him back into the cartel to gather information we need to prosecute them.”  
  
“You’re not sending him anywhere on my watch.”  
  
“Fine, have it your way,” she shrugs. “Our secure server was accessed several weeks ago and we were able to trace the source of the intrusion to this agency. Based on Agent McGee’s credentials and the nature of the material accessed, I’d like him taken into custody. Tobias, if you will.”  
  
“Boss?” Tim yelps, his voice barely a whisper.  
  
While Fornell approaches the junior agent’s desk, Gibbs watches shock wash over the younger man’s face. Shooting out of her desk chair, Ziva moves to intercept him.  
  
A tired voice stops Fornell in his tracks.  
  
“That’s enough.” Features twisted in anger, Tony guards at the entrance to the bullpen.  
  
“Agent DiNozzo, I take it,” Colvin says.  
  
“Thanks for the heads up.” He nods at Fornell. “What can I do for you today, Associate Deputy Director Colvin?”  
  
“How much did you - ”  
  
“Enough to know that I'm heading back to the Angel Caido.”


	10. Chapter 10

**12:30pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Obviously satisfied with her results, Colvin smirks, and Gibbs fights the urge to smack it away. While he’s never struck a woman before, he thinks this might be a good time to start. His fingers find themselves into a fist. When he starts to raise it, Fornell points to the landing where Director Jenny Shepard watches scene unfold.  
  
Gibbs pulls a slow breath, stepping so he can no longer reach Colvin.  
  
“Jen, is that you?” Colvin's eyes flick up to the landing.  
  
“Why, Veera, what a surprise. Why don’t you come up to my office so we can catch up?” Shepard replies, her tone more biting than even Gibbs is used to.  
  
“Been fun boys.” Colvin winks, picking her way to the steps.  
  
With a wicked smile, she follows Shepard into her office. Once they’re gone, Gibbs turns back to Tony and Fornell, unsure who he should head-smack first. Both Fornell’s unleashing of that virago on his agency and Tony’s brash decision to return to his undercover persona seem equally worthy.  When Tony slinks away from the bullpen, Tim bolts after him. Gibbs stares Ziva down until she heads out as well.  
  
“What the hell was that?”  
  
“Your office, Jethro,” Fornell responds, his request almost an order.  
  
Gibbs allows his friend to lead the way to the elevator. The doors barely close before Fornell smashes the emergency switch. Under their feet, the car jolts, and the lights dim to back-up power.  
  
“Tobias.”  
  
Fornell presses his hand against the buttons, staring intently at his shoes.  
  
“Look Jethro.” He glances up. “You don’t understand.”  
  
“Then make me.”  
  
“It’s not that easy.” Fornell laughs, shifting his body against the wall. “Colvin’s tied to that case just like DiNozzo. The agent that blew the Carreras case was under her command. Even though she didn’t okay it, she was in charge when it went to hell. Clean up wasn’t easy and she barely managed to salvage her career.  She’ll do whatever it takes to get her pound of flesh…even tried to send her stepson in undercover.”  
  
“That missing agent?”  
  
Fornell nods grimly. “You got it.”  
  
“So she’s got a bug up her ass? She came here and threatened my team.”  
  
“And you think I let her?” Their eyes meet and Gibbs breaks contact first. “Come on, Jethro, you really think I’d let her waltz in here and do that without a reason? If she knows about McGee and David, what do you think she’s got me?” He pauses for long second. “She found out things that I buried, too.”  
  
Staring intensely at his friend’s anxious features, Gibbs waits for an explanation that doesn’t come. “What does she know, Tobias?”  
  
Fornell sighs. “Diane took me to court again last year to re-evaluate our custody arrangement. Said I worked too many hours to be a good father. She tried to take away the one night a week that I actually get to see my daughter. I had one too many beers after a bad day and Long story short, I wrapped the old Taurus around a tree. Some rookie cop took pity on me and called in a few favors to get the reports changed. Even though they say that I fell asleep at the wheel, Colvin found out I’d been drinking. If that comes out, I’ll not only lose my job, but also Emily.”  
  
Gibbs runs his hand over the back of his head. “Still told ya not to marry her.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind when I run into your next ex-wife.”  
  
An uneasy silence envelopes the pair. Fornell scrapes his shoe over the rough metal floor. The scratching noise echoes through the tiny car, makingGibbs’ skin crawl. Pressing his head against the wall, he swallows hard, thinking about what could happen to his team. If Colvin gets her way, McGee’ll be rotting away in prison term while Ziva gets shipped back to Israel or Tony will go on a suicide mission into a drug cartel.  
  
Neither option seems particularly appealing.  
  
“Don’t beat yourself up too much, Jethro. DiNozzo knew about this.”  
  
“He what?”  
  
“I told him Colvin was coming. When she found out I was poking around the old Carreras case files, she got into my e-mail and found what McGee sent. By the time I got back to my desk, she’d figured out the connection between DiNozzo and the case. I managed to stall long enough to call one of you. Picked DiNozzo since he’s higher on the contact list. I told him about the files and how she was going to get him back undercover, told him to lay low until the whole thing blew over. He came here on his own.”  
  
“He chose to go back?”  
  
“Seems that way.”  
  
“I don’t think –“  
  
“It might be different than you think. We haven’t figured out what Carreras is up to yet, but DiNozzo seems to believe that he’s moving on from the cocaine trade. Don’t know what, but there’s a lot of money at stake.” While Fornell launches into a discourse about the case’s possibilities, Gibbs tunes him out to listen to his brain churn instead.  
  
 _Quinn’s interview about paying for girls. Chase’s journals centering on violent thoughts and Ducky’s belief that he’d acted them out. That dead teenager that has to be from a different country. Anthony Masterson’s bank account._  
  
 _Carreras has a new trade in a new city._  
  
When Gibbs suddenly releases the emergency stop, the elevator lurches upward.  
  
“Jethro, what’s --”  
  
“That sonnuva bitch is selling girls and he’s setting up DiNozzo’s alias for it.”  
  
\--  
 **12:41pm – Staff Lounge – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC – Concurrent with Gibbs and Fornell’s Discussion in The Office –**  
  
When he slumps back against the Formica counter, Tim lifts his head just enough to watch Tony. Seated at one of the lunch tables, the senior agent studies his clasped hands while his legs bounce at alternating rhythms underneath. He leans forward, dropping his head onto his arms with a quiet moan.  
  
His shoulders tremble.  
  
 _I’ve never seen him so nervous._  
  
“Tony?”  
  
He flinches. “Yeah, Probie?”  
  
Tim’s fingers find their way to the jump drive on his keychain. Even though he knows Tony has nothing to do with it, he just needs to hear the words. He clears his throat, staring at an unidentifiable stain on the floor.  
  
“The bank account?”  
  
“You really think it’s me, McSuspicious?” When Tim’s questioning eyes meet his, Tony laughs. “Well, it’s me, but not. That money’s not mine, but the identity is. I went undercover as Anthony Masterson…a really, really long time ago.”  
  
“Masterson?”  
  
“Marlon Brando’s character in Guys and Dolls?” Tony jokingly hangs his head when Tim nods.  “Figures you’ve seen that one.”  
Tim smiles apologetically, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
“Not that it’s important where I got the name from. I used it back in Baltimore with the Angel Caido. Got really close too before the Feebees blew my case.” He presses his lips together, features screwing in disgust.  
  
“You mean Colvin?”  
  
“Yeah, her and an agent named Josiah Losko.”  
  
“Losko?”  
  
“He was pretty much Keyser Soze with a badge.” Tim’s confused expression makes Tony pause. “Come on, Probie. _The Usual Suspects._ Kevin Spacey, Gabriel Byrne. That damn Baldwin that no one can remember. Guy spends the whole movie pretending to be scared of the devil, only to be him.”  
  
Wracking his brain, Tim wonders whether he’s seen the film before. With all the movies he watches to keep up with Tony’s off the cuff recommendations, he can’t quite keep track. He shakes his head.  
  
“You failed today’s film test, Probie. Try again tomorrow.” Tony chuckles humorlessly, dropping his gaze to his hands again. “ ‘The greatest trick the Devil ever played was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’  Losko used to be one of those guys who hung out at the precinct, pretending to be friendly with the unis. Went out drinking with a buncha detectives one night. I guess they were bragging about how an undercover guy from narcotics managed to pull off a job that the feds couldn’t. Losko called in a couple favors, threats, and who knows what to get my case punted from local to federal. And you know how that story ends.”  
  
“Actually, I don’t.”  
  
When Tim slides into a chair at the table, Tony hops to his feet. Hands on the back of his neck, he paces the length of the kitchen, exhaling loudly.  
  
“I spent almost a year undercover before it all went up in smoke. Right before Losko passed my information to the federal prosecutor, he managed to convince some higher-up that the office had a leak. Moved in without a search warrant. My old partner figured it out and warned me so I was able to walk away from the cartel in time. When I got back to work, the whole precinct acted like I was the one who took the case federal. We thought the Angel Caido was done…we didn’t get to celebrate for too long…” He laughs, shaking his head. “None of the evidence from Losko’s raid made it past the preliminary hearing. Illegal search and seizure. The case got thrown out and everyone thought it was my fault.”  
  
“Come on, Tony, you don’t think that’s true…right?” The look on Tony’s face speaks for him, forcing Tim to move on. “Well, what about your evidence? Your reports? Didn’t you submit anything?’  
  
“Losko buried it all. My reports, my pictures, everything just vanished. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s somewhere under the Hoover Building. He even got my witnesses cut loose from WitSec. That man destroyed my case.”  
  
Tony takes a place at the counter, crossing his arms as he sags against the Formica. One of the probationary agents wanders into the lounge to raid the fridge, oblivious to the ongoing conversation. The man removes a pink lunch bag that Tim’s pretty sure doesn’t belong to him, and eyes an unoccupied table until Tony glares him down. With a shrug, he slinks out of the lounge.  
  
“Did Losko work for the cartel?” Tim asks once they’re alone.  
  
“Probably. That’s what a lot of people thought. But we never found out. Right after the case got thrown out, he took a bullet right in front of his house. Chalked it up to a drive by, but the murder’s still open.”  
  
Tim presses his lips together, running his hand across his chin. “So how does Colvin fit with all this?”  
  
“Losko was her direct report. This shit storm went down right while she was on vacation. Imagine getting back from your family’s trip to Disney World to find out that someone you’re responsible for blew one of the state’s biggest cases. She’s probably still trying to dig herself out of that mess.” Tony laughs darkly as he hoists himself onto the counter. Long legs rapping against the cabinets, he hunches forward, meeting Tim’s eyes. “You ever want to go undercover, Probie?”  
  
 _I’m not sure if I ever could…_  
  
“Don’t know. Guess I haven’t thought about it much,” Tim says, drumming his fingers on the table.  
  
“That’s bullshit, Tim.” Tony grins. “Everybody always wants to go undercover. It’s supposed to be exciting and fun…and it is, at first _._ You get this chance to step away from your life and become someone else. Everything that you don’t like about yourself? Just change it in your undercover identity. But when you put on someone else’s clothes and sleep in their bed, you take over their life. After a while, the lines between you and your identity start to blur. You start to think like they do, act like they do. If you’re not careful, you forget who you are.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“The worst part about being undercover was coming home,” Tony continues without acknowledging Tim’s question. “I had to put together what was left of my life. My friends who weren’t cops wouldn’t call me back because I went AWOL for almost a year. Most of them didn’t understand what I’d just gone through. Even my fiancée didn’t understand and I still don’t know what happened. Came home to find the ring and a letter on my nightstand. My partner tried to keep her informed, but she couldn’t accept that deep cover meant no contact with anyone but him. Wendy just didn’t understand that everything I did was to protect her.”  
  
“How come you never said anything?”  
  
“It never came up.”  
  
Even though he wants to know more, the pained look on Tony’s face stops Tim from asking.  
  
“Is that why you left Baltimore?”  
  
“Yeah. When the captain tried to send me on another undercover job, I just couldn’t do it again, so I quit. The rest is history.”  
  
When Tony gestures to the grandeur of the lunch room, Tim figures that’s how the senior agent found his way to Gibbs’ team. While they sit in an uneasy silence, Tim tries to understand what would make Tony go back into the Angel Caido.  
  
He rises from his seat. “Then why go back?”  
  
“So Colvin can send you to prison and Ziva home so I can be all alone with Gibbs? No, thank you very much. I do less paperwork with you guys here.” The tone of his voice betrays the levity of his words.  
  
“Come on, Tony, those threats were just bluffs, right? There’s no way she can arrest me for doing my job, and I don’t think she can deport Ziva.”  
  
The way Tony shifts his weight quickens Tim’s pulse. He realizes there may be some truth to the threats. Tim drops his gaze to the floor, starting to feel sick.  
  
“Please tell me that she can’t send me to prison. I’m just doing my job.”  
  
“Look, McGee, I don’t know,” Tony replies with a shrug, “but I’d rather not find out. Doesn’t matter, I’d go back anyway. I’ve spent the last five years looking over my shoulder. Even though no one knew I was undercover, I’ve always been afraid that someone might recognize me. Now that I know they’re in DC, it’s just a matter of time. I need to get the target off my back.”  
  
“If no one knew who you were, you should be fine, right? You should be safe?”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “If there’s one or two here already, it’s just a matter of time before more come. They’re like ants. You see one, but there’s always more. They’ll just keep coming until they’re stopped. Keeping you and Ziva here is just icing on the cake.” When Tim’s wide eyes glance to him, Tony adds. “Not like going to prison’s even a possibility.”  
  
Tim doesn’t know what to say, so he starts picking at a smear on the table while Tony reaches for an open pack of cookies on the counter. When he holds one out, the younger man smiles tightly and looks back at the tabletop. After Tony inhales all the cookies, he grabs a bag of chips.  
  
 _So this must be why Tony got banned from the lunch room months ago…_  
  
“You think we should head back to work?” Tim asks.  
  
When Tony frowns, the fluorescent light enhances the deep creases on his face. He stares into the bag, shifting the chips around, eventually shaking his head. Tim nods silently, rising from his chair so he can take a place next to his friend.  
  
Neither of them speaks as they finish the bag.


	11. Chapter 11

**5:09pm – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Checking around the shelving unit on the lab bench, Tony slides a few bottles of unknown, and hopefully benign, chemicals out of his view. When he sees a lab coat rush past the other side, he tries to follow its path, miscalculating just how far he can stretch on the lab stool. When it lurches out from underneath him, almost pitching him to the floor, Abby hoists him back to his seat on her way past.  
  
“Thanks, Abs.”  
  
Her resolve weakens slightly; a small smile appears on her face before she averts her gaze. Shaking her head, she rushes to check the nonexistent results on her mass spectrometer. Tony settles back into his seat, watching her bounce to another machine in the corner. She tries to sneak a peek at him over her shoulder, whipping her head around when she notices him staring.  
  
Sighing, he leans onto his forearms.  
  
He still can’t believe that only a few hours ago he retreated from the firestorm in the bullpen to the safety of the forensic lab. While he could never find comfort in the macabre décor or whirring machines, the throaty voice and bright smile of its lone inhabitant always makes him smile.  
As he stares as his succor’s back, he can’t fathom why she isn’t up to her usual task.  
  
When he first arrived, she spent nearly an hour talking animatedly about the recent exploits in her and her machines’ lives. She even regaled him with Tim’s latest dating disaster, but she hadn’t even made it to the good part when an e-mail came through. Based on the way she suddenly stopped talking, Tony figures it had to be from Tim about his upcoming, undercover mission.  
  
Tony checks his watch -  
  
 _I wonder if they’re done in the bullpen yet._  
  
 _Knowing my luck, Colvin’s probably still schmoozing Director Shepard._  
  
-and sighs.  
  
“Abs…” His voice trails off at the look on her face.  
  
“Tony.” The two stare at each other silently until she wavers. “I can’t believe you’re leaving.”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“McGee’s e-mail says that you are. Well, not leaving, leaving, but leaving.” Tony’s eye twitches. “He said you were leaving for a while. I can’t believe that you’re going undercover. No, wait, nevermind. I can believe that you’re going undercover, but I can’t believe that it’s deep cover. What does that even mean?!”  
  
“No contact with anybody except my handler,” he explains, sagging deep against the bench when her lower lip juts out.  
  
“What about Gibbs?”  
  
“Not even Gibbs. But I won’t be gone too long. Maybe a month or two at most.”  
  
Abby presses her lips together, sliding next to him. When her head rests on his shoulder, he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her close. Only the hum of the lab equipment breaks the silence.  
  
Suddenly pulling away, she glances at him with earnest eyes.  
  
“So how do you get back in? Just walk into one of this guy’s hangouts and say, ‘Hey … ‘ ”  
  
She gestures to Tony for the name of the target.  
  
“Carreras.”  
  
“So you just walk into this guy’s hangout and say ‘Hey, Carreras, long time no see, how ya been, man?’”  
  
“Basically,” he laughs.  
  
 _If I tried that, Carreras would put a bullet in my head…it’ll take a bit more finesse._  
  
 “So who’re you going to be?”  
  
“Anthony Masterson,” he replies, surprised by how familiar the name still feels on his tongue.  
  
“Whoa, like the outlaw?”  
  
“Actually it’s Marlon Brando from _Guys and Dolls_.”  
  
Tony pretends to hang his head while Abby laughs.  
  
“I could totally see it _.”_  
  
“Yeah…I originally tried to use Antonio Corleone, but my chief shot me down. Told me I’d get myself killed with a name like that. He suggested Masterson, and I like to think he meant the outlaw.”  
  
 _“_ Antonio Corleone, huh? _The Godfather,_ nice,” she grins. “Brando or Pacino?”  
  
“Do you even have to ask?”  
  
She shakes her head and they both say, “Pacino,” simultaneously.  
  
"I bet you could’ve pulled it off. I’m not sure about _Guys and Dolls_ though. You don’t have the legs for it,” she winks, quickly appraising Tony’s physique.  
  
A wicked glint blazes through her eyes as she turns to her computer, loading the Metro criminal database. When he realizes that she’s looking up his undercover identity, Tony reaches after her hands. Sticking her tongue out at him, Abby slides the wireless keyboard out of his reach.  
Before he can stop her, she accesses Masterson’s criminal record.  
  
Deciding he doesn’t want to see his alter ego’s mug shot, Tony stares back at the door. He doesn’t need to see it to remember Masterson’s depraved glare in the picture.  
  
“You know, you should totally stop shaving. You’re kinda hot when you’re scruffy,” Abby assesses. “Let’s see. Anthony Masterson, born August 14, 1974. Took a couple years off there, huh? Raised by a single mom in Mobile, Alabama. Graduated from the University of Tennessee with a degree in horticulture. Really, Tony? You and plants? I just can’t see it. I bet you’d have a black thumb like me. You shoulda seen when I tried to grow -”  
  
Tony coughs, finally glancing at the information on the screen.  
  
“Pretty impressive rap sheet too,” she continues. “Couple of B&E’s, assault with a deadly weapon, aggravated assault. So you just got out of Lewisburg for a burglary in Pittsburgh. Whoever put this together is a master. This identity is almost ironclad. Even I’d arrest you.”  
  
When Abby winks, he can’t help but laugh.  
  
“Yeah, my old partner put it together before I went undercover. It was his idea to do a bar crawl before the mug shot. You should’ve seen how much Danny put away that night. There were a ton of picture of his -- well, that was the best one of my face. I’m surprised the chief didn’t make him sleep it off in lock-up.” Tony grins. “McGee’s probably updated it since I’ve been down here.”  
  
Abby nods her assent, still staring intently at the mug shot. When she points to Masterson’s neck, Tony sees the peak of the flame underneath his collar. Within seconds, her hands are on his shirt so she can expose his virgin flesh. Her lips pull into a frown.  
  
“I knew you weren’t cool. Masterson is though. What kinda tat is that?”  
  
“I had a fireball on my neck. When I actually joined the cartel, one of my buddies at the precinct made me a temp tattoo of the star and partial skeleton with vegetable dye,” Tony explains, pointing to the side of his neck and left arm. Remembering how the marks felt on his body instantly disgusts him.  
  
“Cool, how long’d that last?”  
  
“Barely a month. Worked out great except I had to get it touched up all the time.”  
  
“Well, I bet it looked cool. You’re doing that again with the FBI, right? Don’t worry about all those touch-ups. I made my own temporary ink that lasts longer than their vegetable dye. Totally works great for hanging out at bars…or undercover assignments.”  
  
Tony notices Abby’s amused smirk.  
  
“You tested on McGee, didn’t you?”  
  
“Oh yeah. My friends didn’t like him when we first started dating. I figured giving him a tattoo would make him cooler.” When Tony shakes his head, Abby laughs. “Like I said, I thought…so I used my temporary ink on him. Did a really awesome version of my name on his arm. I thought it looked great, but he didn’t like it and my friends still didn’t think he was cool. So I offered to turn it into a dragon…but he said no.”  
  
“So that explains why he wouldn’t wear short sleeves that first summer he worked here.”  
  
“You betcha,” she says, then suddenly holds her hands out as she sniffs the air loudly. “Gibbs, incoming!”  
  
Tony inhales, smelling only the odd scents of the lab. When he turns around, he finds Gibbs standing by his side. Before either of them can speak, Abby lunges for the Caf-Pow, slamming into Tony who’s in her way. With a muted grunt, Gibbs pushes them both back.  
  
“Whaddya got, Abs?”  
  
“Uh, Gibbs, you got my report, right? I thought I already e-mailed it to McGee. He should’ve printed it out for you. You know, I bet he forgot to collate it again. The numbers are on the bottom of the page. If they’re not in the right order, just pop out the staple and rearrange them. Or make him do it.” She stops when she notices Gibbs staring at Tony. “Oh yeah, I forgot Major Mass Spec has something for you on that tooth sample I ran through earlier.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Tony presses his back against the lab bench, watching Abby grab Gibbs' arm on the way to the piece of equipment. When he catches his boss glaring at him in the computer monitor, he studies the stitching on his Ferragamos.  
  
“There it is!” she exclaims, jabbing her finger at a tiny point on the scale of chemicals.  
  
“What am I looking at, Abs?”  
  
“The chemical make-up of the sample that I took from the teenager’s tooth. When I ran the demineralized sample, he identified all the components. A tooth is mostly comprised of hydroxyapatite, as well as a buncha other stuff.” When Gibbs stares at her intently, she grins. “But that’s not important right now. What is though is that little spike, right there." She points to a barely identifiable blip on the scale. “It’s a heavier version of hydroxyapatite. While I still have to send the sample out for isotope analysis, the weight is just enough for it to be comprised of oxygen–18 instead of oxygen–16.”  
  
Gibbs shrugs and Abby sighs like no one ever understands her.  
  
“Oxygen – 18 is used to determine the rate of degradation of the polar ice caps.”  
  
“What’s that have to do with the tooth, Abs?”  
  
“If the polar ice caps melt, the water works its way into the drinking water. It starts up north, running down towards the rest of the planet.”  
  
“So the more of that she has in her teeth, the closer she grew up to the polar ice caps?” Tony surmises.  
  
“Bing, bing, we have a winner.” Abby grins, clapping at his correlation. “The oxygen – 18 means that she probably grew up near an ice cap. With the dentistry and tooth structure, my money’s on Siberia. I can confirm it once I run the chemical make-up of her bones. I need about 48 hours before my sample’s good to go.”  
  
When Abby reaches for the CafPow again, Gibbs relinquishes it without a fight. With a salute to both men, she retreats to her office to enjoy her spoils. Staring at the spikes on the monitor, Tony clears his throat. He doesn’t get the chance to speak his mind when Gibbs heads for the door.  
  
“Boss?” he asks, trailing Gibbs into the hallway.  
  
Gibbs goes straight for the elevator, pressing his hand against the buttons but not calling the car. Back to his senior agent, he exhales slowly.  
“Don’t try to tell me that you have no choice.” When Tony starts to protest, Gibbs turns around.  “That shit might work on McGee, but it doesn’t on me.”  
  
Tony sighs, taking a step closer. “You of all people should know that I don’t. We find a dead girl that’s connected to the Angel Caido. Knowing Carreras like I do, there’s a good chance that there are more out there somewhere. What do you want me to do, boss? Run and hide like Fornell suggested? You taught me better than that.”  
  
“And Colvin’s threats?”  
  
“Whatever she said, it’s not gonna happen. This thing almost destroyed her career so she’ll do whatever she can to stop them. I’m just the means to the end. Maybe she’ll get a nice promotion in the process…”  
  
The anger slowly leaves Gibbs’ face, replaced by concern.  
  
 _Haven’t seen that since the night Kate died…_  
  
“Boss,” Tony continues quietly. “It’s just a matter of time before a whole slew of girls end up in autopsy. You think I want to see that go down and know I had a chance to stop it?”  
  
They both stare at each other in silence until Gibbs nods slowly. He moves close enough to squeeze Tony’s shoulder and press an object into his hand.  
  
“Programmed directly to my cell,” Gibbs murmurs. “You call and I will come.”  
  
Staring at the ancient cell phone in his grasp, Tony nods his thanks.  
  
“So what’s the plan?” Gibbs asks, heading back to finally call the elevator.  
  
“Headed over to the Hoover Building tomorrow morning to start the briefing. I think I’ll be there for a week or two while the Feebees get all the details figured out. Not sure if I’ll be around here or not.” The scowl Gibbs shoots over his shoulder tells Tony that he won’t be back at NCIS until after the assignment. “Who’s TAD?”  
  
“Suzuki, had to cancel his vacation,” Gibbs growls.  
  
 _Boss’ gonna love that. Suzuki can’t even say ‘Gibbs’ without freaking out._  
  
 _Wish I could see him work on the team…_  
  
“Low man on the totem pole, huh?”  
  
Grinning at his boss’ exasperated eye roll, Tony slides next to him, staring at their reflections in the polished metal surface.  
  
“How long will you be gone?”  
  
“Not sure how long with the briefing. I’m hoping two to three months.”  
  
The tense of Gibbs’ jaw muscles reeks of doubt. When the elevator doors finally open, he enters alone.  
  
“How’d that work out for you last time, DiNozzo?”  
  
Tony’s mouth gapes, and he can’t find the words before the elevator closes. Sighing quietly, he stares at his shapeless reflection on the door. When he can’t bare the distorted image any longer, he turns around to face the empty hallway.  
  
“Not so good, boss.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Thursday, October 19, 2006 – 4:15am - Residence of Tony DiNozzo – Judiciary Square – Washington, DC –**  
  
Leaning against the sink in his spacious bathroom, Tony studies his hands on the white marble before he flicks his gaze to the mirror. He barely recognizes the haggard eyes that are nearly as wild as his unkempt hair. He runs his hand along his chin, unaccustomed to the week-old stubble underneath his fingertips. When he sees the vegetable dye tattoos on his neck, he drops his eyes to his sink. After plugging the bowl with a stopper, he turns on the tap and splashes water on his face. He sighs loudly.  
  
Tony glances back to the face in the mirror.  
  
 _How did I get here again?_  
  
The daily briefings at the Hoover Building and the sleepless nights in his apartment are responsible for the bags under his eyes and the slouch to his shoulders. His work before the first undercover mission with the Angel Caido pales in comparison to the hoops he jumped through for the FBI. When he went in as a narcotics detective, his superior officer handed him a file with the cartel’s history and jokingly thumped his back for luck. The personal history, rap sheet and IDs were all by-products of his and Danny Walden’s hard work before he walked into Angel Caido territory with the cover of a young man in need of a job.  
  
Tony shakes his head at the thought of the parade of cartel experts and Spanish language coaches that he met with the FBI.  
  
 _I can’t believe they didn’t know that Carreras prefers to do his business in English…how can the Feebees be in control of an operation that they know so little about?_  
  
The group of so-called experts spent nearly a day trying to develop a valid reason to bring him back to the cartel without blowing his cover. When Tony first suggested taking a copy of Masterson’s bank account straight to Carreras, the head of the group gave an eye-roll before banishing him to the Spanish coaches. But given several hours and thousands of taxpayer dollars, they only managed to repackage Tony’s original idea and pass it off as their own.  
  
 _I never thought I’d miss Gibbs’ methods so soon._  
  
When he meets his own gaze in the mirror again, he shakes his head. He’s been so deep in thought that he doesn’t notice the sink nearly overflows. After he turns off the tap, he slinks back into his darkened living room, watching a car’s headlights race past the blinds. He finds his way to his couch, dropping into his preferred spot, thankful that the cool leather can soothe his burning skin.  
  
As another set of headlights barely illuminates the room, Tony wonders why tonight seems so different than all the others he’s spent before an undercover mission. He typically prefers to mix a gin and tonic, host a private screening of his favorite movie and turn in early to stock up on the sleep that never comes on the job.  
  
But he should’ve known hours ago that this wouldn’t be a typical night. After getting out late from today’s briefing and an early drop-off tomorrow morning steal the drink and movie while the disquiet of the impending operation destroys any hope he had left for sleep. When he freed himself from his sweat soaked sheets earlier, he paced his apartment, counting the minutes to the mission’s start.  
  
Pressing his lips together, he glances to the clock on his DVD player.  
  
 _I guess there’s no rest for the soon-to-be wicked._  
  
Tony watches the time tick away, the headlights his only disruption as he waits. When he can’t stand the darkness any longer, he turns on a light on the side table. While the spots clear from his vision, he rises to study pieces of the life that he’ll be leaving in only few short hours. He moves slowly, dragging his fingers over the cold shell of his baby-grand piano.  
  
When he reaches his bookshelf, he traces the spines of his movie collection, smiling at the mementos of his life at NCIS. There’s the glass paperweight Tim gave him last Christmas, a Goth Pez dispenser from Abby, the empty coffee cup Gibbs brought him when he survived his first year, Ziva’s letter opener she used to threaten him with, and that fancy pen Kate never let him borrow.  
  
 _Will it be the same when I get back?_  
  
His bare feet pad over the hardwood floor as he moves into the kitchen. On the back of a barstool, his cover’s jacket rests, ready for him to pull on. Shaking his head, he can’t help but run his fingers over the soft leather. The quality of the Armani craftsmanship feels both foreign and familiar. Even though it’s one of the few gifts he ever received from his father, he can’t remember whether it was for Christmas or his birthday. Not like it really matters now.  
  
Tony only recalls how a cold day led him to grab it on his way out the door before his first mission.  
  
By the time he finished with the Angel Caido, the jacket was almost as recognizable as him. After the mission, he didn’t dare wear it again so it was banished to the back of his closet. It hasn’t seen the light of day since he walked away from the cartel.  
  
Inhaling sharply, he slides into one of the bar stools.  
  
 _When I leave here, I’ll be Masterson again. For as long as I need to be._  
  
Tony’s chest tightens.  
  
 _I can do this…I have to._  
  
For a fleeting moment, he considers calling Gibbs, even though he knows any contact with his team could have detrimental consequences. He just craves that camaraderie they share in those seconds before taking down a suspect - before they head into battle. Right now, he even misses that nervous habit Tim has where he checks his clip until they head out.  
  
When he notices the time on his stove, Tony grimaces, unable to figure out exactly how the whole night passed by already. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he moves to the front door to recheck his duffle bag for the umpteenth time. Rooting through the carefully folded clothes, he smiles when he finds the Glock Gibbs lent him when he officially left NCIS.  
  
Tony lets his fingers linger on the cool grip, surprisingly comforted by its presence.  
  
Just as he zips up the bag, the doorbell rings. Pulling on his socks and boots, Tony glances to the living room window to see the first sunlight peek through the blinds.  
  
 _I can’t believe morning’s here already…_  
  
While he rushes back to the kitchen to retrieve his jacket, the doorbell rings again. By the time he arrives at the door, he’s breathless. Half-expecting to see one of his team-mates, he frowns at the humorless face of his handler. With his dark crew cut and black shapeless suit, Jamie Schaller looks like a stereotypical federal agent.  
  
The theme song to _Men in Black_ pops into Tony’s head.  
  
“Thought you were having second thoughts,” Schaller drawls, monotone voice matching his bland features.  
  
“Not a chance in hell. Especially if you’re right about what Carreras has been up to lately.”  
  
Tony heaves his duffle off the floor, pausing by the door as he runs through his mental checklist for his apartment. The rent and utilities are paid in advance for six months and Gibbs has the contingency plan should the mission not go as expected.  
  
“You ready?” Schaller calls, already down the hall.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”  
  
Tony stares back into his home, a reflection of the man he’s about to leave behind. After he switches off the light, he finds that he can’t move. He wants to stay, watch the way the morning light flows through his blinds, illuminating shadows that he never even knew existed. Every part of him wants to linger just a moment longer to see aspects of his apartment that he’s never noticed until now.  
  
Even though he’s not ready, he pulls the door shut.  
  
The dull thud resonates through him.  
  
\--  
  
 **12:54pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters – Washington, DC –**  
  
Glancing down at the falafel and spinach pita on his desk, Tim grimaces. Ever since Tony left for the Hoover Building, Ziva and the TAD have taken it upon themselves to make sure the team only consumes healthy food. Despite Tim’s constant pleas for Chinese and pizza, his teammates return with salads, hummus and more kinds of tofu than he thinks should be legal.  
  
Tim turns to his computer so he can start his preliminary report for their current case. While he can’t call his experience as acting senior field agent disastrous just yet, he knows that it’s dangerously close.  Instead of heading the harmonious, well-driven team that Tony manages, Tim inherited a nightmare. Every order evokes an inquiry about his authority from Ziva or a question from their clueless TAD.  
  
 _I don’t remember being that bad as a probie…_  
  
Mutiny and confusion have pushed what Tim thought would be a straightforward case into its fourth day. With their leads drying up and the investigation hitting a wall, he lives in a constant state of panic that Gibbs will ask him for conclusions that he hasn’t reached yet.  
  
Pressing his lips together, he watches Ziva work quietly on her computer while she picks her salad.  
  
Tim can’t figure out how Tony managed to keep them all in line and placate Gibbs at the same time. While he hopes to learn the secret someday, he figures it’ll take a few more years of training before his brain operates like Tony’s. But he still isn’t sure whether that would be a good thing.  
  
When he notices a grey-haired head pass by the wall behind Tony’s desk, terror blasts through Tim. Mercifully, it turns out to be an agent other than his boss. He sighs loudly, his eyes dropping to the sandwich. Something green and unidentifiable oozes out of the pita and onto the paper wrapping.  
  
 _I don’t know how much longer I can do this._  
  
But when his stomach growls again, Tim scoops it up, trying to ignore the noxious smell. He hazards a small bite, feeling the grainy mass slip through his teeth. Barely managing to swallow the mouthful, he chucks the rest into the trashcan.  
  
“Did you just throw that away?” Ziva asks, mid-bite into her salad.  
  
“Yeah, guess I’m not feeling the falafel today.”  
  
Probationary Agent Kenji Suzuki pops his head around the corner of the bullpen.  It takes Tim a few seconds to locate the round face at the end of his picture wall.  
  
“Really? How can you not be in the mood for falafel? I thought you loved it,” Kenji says.  
  
“Just haven’t been hungry lately.”  
  
“Perhaps you should choose dinner then?” Ziva suggests, violently spearing a piece of lettuce.  
  
“What do you guys think about Chinese? I’ve been craving General Tso’s chicken.” He already has a menu from his desk when he notices Ziva’s pinched features. The shake of Kenji’s head makes Tim sigh. “Pizza? How about we get a pizza?”  
  
“You know, Agent McGee, all that grease will kill you. What about some fish? Nice lean protein?” Kenji advises, sliding his desk chair into the bullpen.  
  
Tim glowers at his monitor.  
  
“Perhaps we should decide when dinner gets closer, yes?” Ziva recommends.  
  
 _Odds are whatever I pick’ll be vegan…again._  
  
“Alright, fine, whatever,” Tim grumbles. “Anybody got anything on the Dukakis case?”  
  
He lost count of how many times he’s asked the same question since they caught the case Monday morning. A dead petty officer in a dirty alley with a knife though his heart seemed like a perfect distraction for their first week without Tony. With a few pieces of seemingly solid evidence, Tim originally thought this case would be his first win as acting senior field agent.  
  
Though as he watched Abby disprove his theories and his team growing even more unmanageable, he gradually stopped caring about the win. Now, he just wants to live long enough to see the weekend.  
  
“According to Abby, the partial print on the knife that went through Dukakis’ heart wasn’t in the system. Although the one on the dumpster is from the same person, so whoever killed the petty officer probably did something in there,” Kenji reports.  
  
“I know, Kenj, I read her report too. So you’re thinking wrong place, wrong time?”  
  
He smiles tightly, and then jogs back to his desk for his legal pad. While he flips through the pages, Tim rolls his eyes at Ziva.  
  
“Well, I did until I looked into his financials and it turns out that he withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash the day he died.”  
  
“Any idea why?”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Whole lot of drugs in that part of DC?”  
  
“There is no evidence of any drugs in his system,” Ziva says, displaying the autopsy report on the plasma. “He is cleaner than a harmonica.”  
  
“Clean as a whistle,” Tim corrects.  
  
“No, Agent McGee, I think she’s right about the harmonica,” Kenji offers.  
  
Tim inhales raggedly, counting slowly to ten until he feels the agitation ebb away.  
  
“Okay, fine, he’s cleaner than a harmonica. But what was Dukakis planning on buying if it wasn’t drugs?” He frowns at the stone-faced team looking back. “Come on guys, we should’ve solved this days ago.”  
  
“You’re damn right, McGee. Whaddya got?” Gibbs growls, rushing into the bullpen.  
  
At the sight of the team leader, Kenji ducks behind his legal pad, scampering back to his desk.  
  
“Prints on the dumpster and knife match, so Dukakis probably interrupted someone digging through the trash and it got him killed. But he also took out ten grand in cash. Money wasn’t with the body, so he probably dropped it off before he was murdered,” Tim reports.  
  
“Or somebody took the money and set up the murder to look like a random act. Any defensive wounds on the victim?” Tim shakes his head. Gibbs sips his coffee. “Then he knew the killer.”  
  
Tim grimaces, unable to believe his oversight. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he truly hopes the bullpen will be empty when he opens his eyes again. Unfortunately, Ziva and Kenji stare back, clearly awaiting orders. Before he can give any, Gibbs points at them.  
  
“Go talk to Dukakis’ co-workers and find out if anybody’s ten grand richer.” When Tim grabs his gear, Gibbs shakes his head. “Ziva, take Suzuki.”  
  
Kenji hides behind his legal pad to sneak past Gibbs, and Tim wonders why he can’t channel his boss’ authority. Turning back to his report, he shrinks behind his desk as Gibbs approaches. By the time he smells the coffee that lingers on his boss’ breath, Tim can feel the sweat pricking to his brow.  
  
There’s a solid rap to the back of his head. Cheeks blazing, Tim glances up to Gibbs’ concerned face.  
  
“Come on, McGee. Get your head in the game.”  
  
“Boss, but Tony –“  
  
“Isn’t here. You are. I need you, Tim, got it?”  
  
“On it, boss.”  
  
After Gibbs hustles out of the bullpen, Tim slumps back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he runs his hand across his face. Finally alone, he allows himself to relax slightly. While he knows that he should be checking the bank accounts of Dukakis’ coworkers for a ten thousand dollar windfall, he runs a trace on Tony’s cell phone instead. Even though Tony’s been on lockdown in the Hoover Building for over a week, just knowing his location gives Tim comfort.  
  
When he doesn’t get a hit on the number, he starts another search. The next failure makes his chest tighten. By the time his fifth trace closes out, Tim can only stare at the monitor in shock.  
  
 _Tony’s gone._  
  
 _\--_  
  
 **2:15pm – Right in Front of Los Niños Nuevos – Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –**  
  
When a cold afternoon breeze bites through his leather jacket, Tony shivers and pulls it closer to his body. The bright autumn sun high overhead deceives the air’s briskness. Walking down the deserted sidewalk, he heads towards a seedy bar that the FBI believes to be Carreras’ newest hangout. Sandwiched between two abandoned buildings, it has a fluorescent yellow sign with Spanish writing that advertises the local watering hole.  
  
A square jawed man leans against the moldy bricks, and Tony flashes the star tattoo on his neck.  
  
 _If the FBI’s intel is right, Carreras should be enjoying his weekly beer right now._  
  
He inhales slowly.  
  
“You go in,” the man hisses, voice heavily accented.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go when I feel like it. Just wanna enjoy the weather a bit more. You hear it’s supposed to snow next week?” Tony rambles, disgusted by his cover’s propensity for inane dissertation.  
  
The man raises his eyebrows at Tony’s broad grin. Deciding not to tempt fate, Tony ducks into the darkened building. The stench of cheap alcohol and cheaper women assaults his senses before his eyes even adjust to the light. He sees a few misguided young men hunched over an uneven bar while two women in tight shirts and nonexistent skirts try to earn a drink. When he notices two thugs guarding a door in the back, he figures Carreras must have commandeered a room for his business. He moves towards them, cringing every time he yanks his boot off the sticky floor.  
  
Not bothering to address the men, Tony starts to enter the back room. One of the guards roughly pushes him away while the other pulls open his jacket to display a handgun in the waist of his jeans.  
  
“Hm, nice piece, whaddya got there, man? Beretta 92? Or is it a 96? No wait, don’t tell me. You know, you lose all your cred with that gun. That’s a chick’s gun. I got myself a Glock, nice big barrel…with nice big bullets,” he says, barely suppressing a grin when the guard’s eye twitches.  
  
“It’d still cap your sorry ass.”  
  
“I’d die of embarrassment before your bullet touched me.”  
  
The twitch turns into a spasm as the guard pulls his weapon out.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, Hector, calm down.” The other man slides in front of the gun. “Look man, you might wanna split before you get yourself killed.”  
“Carreras in there?” Tony points at the door.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You deaf or just don’t speak English? Is Enrico Carreras back there?”  
  
With his features tight in anger, the other guard steps out of Hector’s way.  
  
“What’s your business?”  
  
“Tell Carreras that Masterson’s in town and that my business is with him.”


	13. Chapter 13

**2:31pm - Los Niños Nuevos – Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –**  
  
Hector slips into the backroom to likely discuss Tony’s impromptu visit with Carreras, leaving him and the other guard alone in the bar. When Tony slides closer to the door so he can eavesdrop, the man levels a Gibbs-worth death glare that sends him scrambling away. Somehow it hardens as Tony smiles politely.  
  
His act of contrition ignored, Tony paces the length of the bar, watching the patrons sip a mid-afternoon beer. By the time he reaches the restrooms, he realizes that in a matter of minutes he’ll be facing the man who nearly ended his career. Sighing quietly, he prepares to launch into one of his random dialogues that caught Carreras’ eye at their first meeting.  
  
Tony returns to the guard, mirroring the other man’s stance.  
  
“Nice thing you got goin’ here, man?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Is this a nice thing? Workin’ muscle for Enrico Carreras? I used to do it back in the day before I got put away.” When the guard shoots him a concerned glance, Tony shakes his head. “Got sent upstate for something totally different…though speaking of different, Washington isn’t quite like Baltimore. Guess you can get a beer, something for your nose, or -- ” a woman eyes him on her way to the bathroom and he leers after her, “-- a lady whenever you want.”  
  
“The cash ain’t bad.”  
  
Tony pulls his foot off the floor, making a display at the way it sticks.  
  
“Can’t find charm like this anywhere else, can ya?”  
  
The guard begins to chuckle, disguising it as a cough when Hector reappears. A head jerk informs Tony that Carreras will meet him. Directly on the other side of the plywood door, there’s a short hallway with a flickering overhead light. On either side, they pass by several solid wood doors until they reach one marked with a tiny star by the knob. Two swift knocks followed by a low tap grant them entrance into the new heart of the Angel Caido.  
  
Hector pushes Tony inside, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
Four men gather around a table in the center of the room, deeply involved in some sort of card game. It takes Tony a second to notice the two guards in either corner that hold large, semi-automatic weapons. When he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket, one of the guns gets aimed at him.  
  
Tony laughs nervously, raising his hands.  
  
When he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, Tony finally catches the familiar face peering at him over a card hand. Even though he’s thinner than at their last encounter in Baltimore, and now clean shaven, Tony would recognize Enrico Carreras anywhere.  
  
Without removing his gaze from Tony’s face, Carreras drops a wager into the pot and picks a card from the pile. One of the players throws his hand to the table with an angry grunt.  
  
“Heya, Rico.”  
  
“Tony.”  
  
Carreras returns his attention to the game while Tony stands by the door, trying to figure out a way to segue into conversation. When the hand ends and a new one is dealt right away, he shifts his weight, accepting that they will speak when Carreras is ready.  
  
In this world, he is the clock.  
  
The minutes pass slowly while the cards flick across the table. After an agitated sigh from one of the players, the man next to Carreras rakes in the pot and another hand starts.  
  
“So what brings you back, Tony?”  
  
“Business.” He eyes the full room. “The personal kind.”  
  
“And you just thought you’d stroll up and we’d discuss it? Could’ve handled it years ago.”  
  
“Not really, just happened coupla weeks back.”  
  
Carreras shrugs, staring intently at his cards for a split second. When his features contort in disgust, he chucks them onto the table, finally granting Tony his undivided attention.  
  
“Let me get this straight, Tony, you disappear and then just show up expecting me to take care of a situation for you? Doesn’t work that way. When you bounced, you left a whole lotta shit for me to clean up. I don’t owe you anything.” When new cards slide towards him, Carreras glances at his guards and jerks his head at Tony. “Shame too, I liked you.”  
  
“Don’t you remember my ma was sick? Got a call from her hospice nurse that she took a turn for the worst. I had to leave when I did or else I’d never have said goodbye.” He holds his breath while Carreras motions his men back to their corners. “I was on my way back when I heard you tried to party with some feds. Didn’t feel like dealin’ with it, so I headed up to Pittsburgh. Got pinched during a burglary and did a few in Lewisburg.”  
  
“How long were you in?”  
  
“Three years. Cops told me I could get out early if I helped them with a case.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Told ‘em what they wanted to hear. Whether it’s true or not, you gotta ask the other guy.”  
  
Tony’s stomach clenches until Carreras laughs heartily, climbing from his chair. When he pulls himself to his full height, Tony realizes he forgot just how imposing the dealer truly is. As they share a friendly handshake, Carreras’ strong grip is nearly bone-crushing. The jagged scar over his left eye makes Tony break eye contact first, his gaze wandering down to settle on the nearly complete skeleton tattoo on the man’s thick forearm.  
  
 _Looks like he’s been busy since Baltimore…_  
  
“So how you been?” Carreras shoots Tony a gap-toothed grin.  
  
“Decent, aside from my ma and Pennsylvania, you?”  
  
“Great, busy. What do you need?”  
  
“Think it’s best between us, Rico.”  
  
When Carreras stares at him intently, Tony pulls a copy of the forged bank account out of his pocket. Eyeing the men still in the room, he hands it over. After a quick review of the page, Carreras jerks his head towards the door, banishing them to the hallway.  
  
They stare at each other until there’s a dull thud to signal they’re alone.  
  
“Where did you get this?” Carreras growls.  
  
“Did a little digging. Heard some rumors while I was inside about how Enrico Carreras was layin’ low since the feds were breathin’ down his neck. Turns out there was some new guy takin’ over Baltimore…I think I heard his name mighta been Masterson.” Tony cocks his eyebrows, feeling his heart slam against his sternum.  
  
Carreras crumples the paper up, and reaches for the doorknob.  
  
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Rico. I got copies, lotsa copies with lotsa friends. I don’t make contact and they go to the feds. You think they might want to see that?”  
  
“What do you want? Money?”  
  
“No, no, I’m good. I got tons of money.” Tony grins, pointing at the wad in Carreras’ hand. “All I want is a job.”  
  
“A job?” Carreras’ eyes narrow suspiciously.  
  
“Just like the old days.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Well, stay alive. Can’t work for ya, if I’m dead.” Tony laughs. “Been hard findin’ a job since I got parole. My officer was always crashin’ my meetings. Since I jumped, I’m real short on real cash. I figured I’d hit you up first…with our history and all.”  
  
 “We’ll discuss things later. Until then get out of my sight.”  
  
\--  
  
 **6:12pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Head propped on his hand, Tim stares blankly at Tony’s desk, wondering how the undercover mission’s going so far. Even though he knew that it would start eventually, he finds that Tony’s abruptly disconnected cell phone took him by surprise. He sighs quietly, still unsure what he expected.  
  
Tim wonders when Tony will be returning. His lips pull into a wry smile as he shakes his head. While he still won’t admit just how excited he was for the hiatus, Tim did look forward to a few weeks of peace and quiet (and the spitball-free work environment). If the team hadn’t caught the Dukakis case early Monday morning, he might’ve had a chance to actually enjoy the break.  
  
He grimaces at the partially written report on his computer screen, certain that his first case as acting senior field agent should be proceeding differently. But ever since they arrived at the scene, one setback after another prevented him from making any real progress.  
  
Tim should’ve known this case would be different when he walked into that alley and heard Gibbs’ request for his opinion instead of an order. He never realized just how much he didn’t see until someone bothered to ask him. While Tony would’ve traipsed around the scene before announcing his theory, Tim stumbled about, trying to put pieces together without even knowing what they were.  
  
When he saw the tightness in Gibbs’ jaw at his indecision, he felt mortified. For the first time in his career, he wished for an order, a task to complete, anything to compensate for the knowledge that he lacked. He’ll never forget the look on his boss’ face before he received the command to canvas the street for witnesses.  
  
 _I wonder if I’ll ever be anything more than a probie._..  
  
No matter how hard Tim works to redeem himself, he just can’t seem to shake that sense of failure from that momentary hesitation. He yawns suddenly, trying to remember the last time that he spent a full night in his bed. Even when he does leave before midnight, he still finds himself pouring over evidence reports at his kitchen table, trying to develop new angles. He doesn’t even want to think about how many times Gibbs called him in the middle of the night to discuss theories.  
  
All that, and it’s still open...  
  
He can’t believe that after his hard work Gibbs dropped the solution earlier.  
  
 _I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known._  
  
Shaking his head to clear the self-loathing, Tim turns back to his computer to pull Dukakis’ phone records. When the trace compiles the list of recent numbers from their victim’s call log, he cross-references each one against the list of Dukakis’ co-workers. Once he gets a hit, he’ll recheck that person’s financials to determine whether they made any large deposits on Monday.  
  
As he combs through his research, Tim realizes just how much he enjoys this aspect of his job. While others consider the careful examination of details mind-numbing, he finds the trail of consistencies that lead to the guilty thrilling. Minutiae that run in lines of code are his calling, more so than trying to manage a team of agents. Whenever Ziva and Kenji look to him for orders, he never knows what to say. He always trips over his words, that unpleasant stutter from his childhood resurfacing.  
  
Every time he sees the look they share, he knows they don’t take him seriously.  
  
He barely noticed it in the beginning, nothing more than quick shift of Ziva’s eyes to Gibbs before acting. Though as the week progressed, so did the insubordination. He could handle the questioning glances that morphed into shrugs and eye rolls. He could handle being outvoted for meals and the way Ziva or Kenji never really engage him in friendly conversation anymore. But when Tim told them to bring in one of Dukakis’ coworkers for an initial interview and his teammates double-checked the order with Gibbs, he felt utterly defeated.  
  
It probably wouldn’t bother him quite so much if he didn’t feel the same way about himself as everyone else. Tim can’t wait until Tony bounds off the elevator, allowing him to withdraw to his junior status, back to his details and minutiae. He just wants to retreat to the part of the team where he doesn’t have to have all the answers and it’s okay to be wrong sometimes.  
  
His typing echo hollowly as he checks into the bank account of the man Ziva brings in for questioning. Just as the elevator sounds, he finds a sizable deposit on the day of the murder. He doesn’t bother to check on his team, figuring they’ll herd their suspect to interrogation before bringing the falafels to the bullpen. Although his stomach growls voraciously, he knows he can’t even look at another one.  
  
As he reaches after the take-out menu to his favorite place, the craving for General Tso’s chicken hits him so suddenly he can almost smell the greasy meat in its delicious sauce.  
  
“Do not bother,” Ziva’s voice says suddenly.  
  
Head snapping up, he’s surprised to find her in front of his desk with a take-out bag.  
  
“Where’s Suzuki?”  
  
“In interrogation with Gibbs,” she answers, placing the bag of food on his desk. “I did not mean to question you, McGee. It will not happen again.”  
  
\--  
  
 **7:03pm – Unknown Location – Washington, DC –**  
  
When he feels the decrepit Honda Civic pitch to the right as it rounds a corner, Tony adjusts his count in hopes that he’ll be able to find Carreras’ hideout later. Underneath the black cotton hood Hector handed him back at his identity’s apartment in Columbia Heights, Tony has carefully kept track of their route.  
  
So far, they’ve made fourteen turns over twenty minutes.  
  
As the car hangs another right, he begins to wonder whether Hector drives in circles to confuse him. When he thinks about how it’ll take more than a few extra turns for him to lose the trail, Tony snickers.  
  
“Something funny?” Hector asks.  
  
“Yeah, just thinking about you and that gun of yours,” Tony says, shifting in the seat.  
  
The ragged exhale next to him signals the end of the conversation and he’s grateful.  
  
 _I’ve come too far to get lost now…_  
  
After a few more turns, the ride grows steadily rougher. Right before the potholes make him regret his dinner, the vehicle grinds to a halt. Tony rips the hood from his head, leaning down in his seat to study their location. All he can see is a dark cinderblock wall just outside the window and the outline of a dumpster further down the alley.  
  
“Come on,” Hector says, waving his arm as he climbs out of the car.  
  
As soon as his boots hit the filthy asphalt, Tony’s eyes scan the narrow alleyway that’s littered with nothing more than just a few dumpsters. Both sides of the street are flanked by large, nondescript warehouses that stretch towards the cloudless, night sky. A single light bulb illuminates several broken windows beside a door that’s spray-painted with what he thinks are gang symbols. Squinting against the darkness, he tries to find the nearest cross-street but the light can’t reach that far.  
  
There are no sounds, other than the crunch of Hector’s shoes on the ground.  
  
By his count, he should be somewhere in Capitol Hill…but the buildings just aren’t right.  
  
 _Where the hell am I?_  
  
“How long you gonna stand there?” Hector asks, pausing by the spray-painted door.  
  
“Well, it’s a beautiful night,” Tony quips, finally following him inside.  
  
When he sets foot in the main room, he realizes the building’s inhabitable interior deceives its dilapidated exterior. Low loft-style lights hanging overhead brighten the huge space with a soft, incandescent glow. In the corner farthest from the entrance, several rough-looking men crowd onto leather couches surrounding a big-screen television.  
  
Even from where he stands, Tony can see the football player throw a great pass. He lets out a whistle.  
  
“You guys get the Discovery Channel?” Hector rolls his eyes, leading Tony towards a set of steps on the opposite side of the room. “What? My cable’s not set-up yet, man. That repeat of Shark Week should be on soon. Did you watch it this year? I hear they had a show on with the filmmakers in a cage while they tried to catch some Great Whites. Could you imagine what that would be like?”  
  
“Nah, man, don’t like sharks.”  
  
“Shame, they’re real impressive creatures.” Tony stops with Hector at the base of the stairs. “Say, did you ever – “  
  
Before he can finish his newest thought, the door at the top of the stairs opens. When Carreras emerges, he nods at Hector then sets his sight on Tony.  With a puff of relief, Hector sprints towards the sports game.  
  
“That’ll rot your brain!” Tony calls, glancing up in time to catch Carreras descending the steps.  
  
“Been telling them that for years. Think anyone ever listens?” he says, gesturing for Tony to follow him through a door that leads out of the main room. When they pass through a large, unused space, Tony can hear the delicate plink of dripping water somewhere nearby. Cold air leaks through one of the shattered windows, and he hugs his coat tighter.  
  
Heading through another door, Carreras leads Tony down a dark hallway that seems like it stretches on forever. The exposed light bulbs overhead emit barely enough light to see the dark metal doors that line the passage. They move quickly until Carreras stops at what appears to be an office.  
  
Trailing Carreras into the tiny, windowless room, Tony wonders whether he’s older than the furniture.  
  
 _So this is where the magic happens._  
  
“Nice digs,” he says, appraising a tan, plaid couch in the corner.  
  
Carreras snorts, sliding into a chair behind a plywood desk. “Needed a quiet place to talk business, Tony.”  
  
“Good. You freaked me a bit with the hood.”  
  
“It was necessary. I need to know you’re still okay.”  
  
“Whaddya mean?”  
  
“Had a bit of pest problem a couple months back, so I’m more careful these days.”  
  
“Pest problem? Like roaches? I know a guy who knows a guy who’s got some stuff that could take out the whole colony.”  
  
“Worse than roaches. Feds. Some young kid showed up, looking for a job. Happens pretty often, but I didn’t get a good feeling about him. Had some of the guys ask him a couple of questions and he turned out to be a freaking undercover fed. Almost had to scrape this whole operation…”  
  
Tony swallows hard, turning his back to Carreras so he can examine a faded painting of a forest that takes up most of one of the walls.  
  
“Undercover fed, huh? You don’t say. So what happened to him?”  
  
“Sent the whole lot a message.” Carreras grins, pointing to the skeleton his left forearm.  
  
 _Bet that was Colvin’s stepson._  
  
“Think they learned?” Tony asks while Carreras motions to an open chair.  
  
“Guess we’ll see.” He shrugs. “But tell me, Tony, how was upstate Pennsylvania?”  
  
A suspicious glint passes through Carreras eyes as Tony moves towards the seat.  
  
“Lewisburg was fan-freakin’-tastic. Not sure what those decorators were doin’ with the orange walls. Guess they were tryin’ to liven the place up a bit. If the light was just right, the guard would lose ya against the paint.”  
  
Carreras nods. “I think it might be time to talk terms.”  
  
“What’re you thinkin’?”  
  
“First, tell me who has a copy of that document.”  
  
“Can’t do that, Rico. I need to protect my friends. People don’t hold onto stuff like that if they know you’re plannin’ on rattin’ ‘em out the first chance ya get.”  
  
“Fine, then just tell me how many copies there are.”  
  
“Four.” Carreras pinches the bridge of his nose before he runs his hand over his face. Just as he’s about to speak, Tony changes the subject. “So what have I been up to lately? Am I into cocaine too?”  
  
Carreras shakes his head. “You really want to see what you’ve been up to?”  
  
The chair t sighs almost with relief as his massive weight lifts. Without another word, he leads Tony back into the hallway, tracing a circuitous route through the hallways until they reach a metal door. With its two deadbolts and reinforced hinges, Tony suddenly realizes that it’s not meant to keep something out.  
  
 “What are you into, Rico?” Tony asks, trying to swallow the nausea that rises in his throat.  
  
“You mean, what are you into?”  
  
Before Tony can respond, Carreras unclicks the locks to push the door open. It takes Tony’s eyes quite some time to adjust to the low glow of the lanterns on the floor. The first thing he sees are the piles of sleeping bags, dotted with paper cups and food wrappers, strewn haphazardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a flash of movement.  
  
He follows it to find a terrified blonde staring back at him. His heart skips a beat.  
  
 _Gibbs is right._  
  
 _Surprise, surprise, Gibbs is always right…_  
  
When Carreras pushes the door open further, allowing the light to trespass into the deeper recesses of the room, Tony counts eight girls that slide into the shadows. While three of them huddle together in a corner, a stick-thin blonde with matted hair squares her shoulders at him and Carreras.  
  
He blinks, hoping they won’t be there when his eyes open again.  
  
 _Untraceable. Easy to control. Little upkeep._  
  
 _Just like the one in the morgue, these girls are ghosts._  
  
Barely managing a grin that hides his disgust, Tony glances to Carreras.  
  
“This, Tony?" He smiles wickedly. "This is all on you, but it’s good to have you back.”


	14. Chapter 14

**10:08pm – Amelia’s Diner – Shaw, Washington, DC –**  
  
Tucked in a dark booth at the back of a nearly deserted diner, Tony drums his fingers on the faded white linoleum while he waits for his handler to arrive for the emergency meet. When a tired-eyed waitress silently places a glass of water by his hand, he nods his thanks. She wretches the order pad from her stained apron, but he gestures to the pair of menus on the tabletop. With an agitated eye roll, she vanishes, and he sinks deeper into the thin padding beneath him. Inhaling raggedly, he lets his fingertips glide over the condensation that forms on the water glass.  
  
When a tiny bell on the front door echoes, Tony swivels on the off chance that Schaller might not notice him all the way in the back. But it’s only a group of intoxicated college students, looking for a quick bite before a big night on the town. As their raucous laughter breaks the silence, he shifts his weight, trying not to revisit the evening’s previous events.  
  
Despite his best efforts, he fails.  
  
The meeting went exactly as Tony planned. In fact, it went better than he even expected. His explanation got him the face time with Carreras while their personal history secured him his original position with the Angel Caido. Everything was great until he saw those girls in the warehouse.  
  
 _Even though I knew about the trafficking, I never expected to see their faces._  
  
Bile rises in his throat and he grabs the water, trying to force it back down. The glass comes up empty before he can quell his stomach. He rakes a hand through his hair, knowing there’s nothing he can do to help them right now since he doesn’t even know where they’re being held. When he left the warehouse, he offered to call a cab so Hector wouldn’t have to stop watching the game to drive him home. Of course Carreras, being a gentleman, insisted on the door-to-door service of his henchman-cum-chauffer. If it hadn’t been for the hood on the return trip, Tony’s certain that he’d have a side street, some sort of building or even a strange looking lamp-post that Tim could use to determine the hideout’s location.  
  
 _But I didn’t see anything, so I have nothing._  
  
He sighs loudly, checking the time. Sinking deeper into the seat, his fingers resume their drumming on the worn tabletop. When the waitress does another stalk past his booth, he smiles apologetically and reaches for a menu. While he stares at the words without reading them, she goes to check on the inebriated group that whoops for her attention.  
  
Unable to stop himself, Tony thinks about the terrified expressions on the teenagers’ young faces again. No matter how hard he tries to understand Carreras’ venture to market the girls as a commodity, he just can’t imagine how anyone, even the dealer, could find that acceptable. Even when Tony watched Carreras annihilate rival cartel members to court their customers in Baltimore, he could try to understand the situation.  
  
But to sell these girls like a product? He can’t fathom it at all.  
  
 _Maybe Carreras finally rotted to the core…_  
  
Tony blinks, surprised to see Schaller’s acerbic face on the opposite side of the booth. Assessing the agent’s brown suit in an identically unflattering cut as the last one, Tony debates about whether he should slip his tailor’s card into the next report.  
  
“Were you followed?” Schaller whispers tensely, glancing over his shoulder when the college students cheer as their food arrives.  
  
“I made sure that I wasn’t.”  
  
“Alright then, good. What’s with the emergency meet? It’s a bit unorthodox to - ”  
  
When a low cough interrupts their conversation, Tony glances up to find the waitress looming at the edge of the table. Pen poised against her pad, she narrows her eyes at the agents. Schaller gathers his menu off the table, quickly flipping through the pages.  
  
“Uh… I’ll take the eggs, sunny side up, white toast, no hashbrowns, coffee.”  
  
“Pancakes, extra syrup and a glass of milk,” Tony says with a grin.  
  
As soon as she’s done collecting their menus, she flashes a buck-toothed smile and disappears.  
  
“Agent DiNozzo, what’s –“  
  
“Carreras has been busy lately. I’m not sure exactly what he’s doing, but I saw the girls. There’s eight of them, can’t be older than the girl NCIS found a few weeks ago. I think it’s time to shut him down.”  
  
Schaller studies Tony’s solemn expression, nodding slowly while he listens.  
  
“That’s good. Did you get a chance to talk to any of the girls?”  
  
“Uh, not really. Sorta awkward to ask them what’s up when I’m supposed to be the guy pimping them out, dontcha think?”  
  
“Guess so.” Schaller shrugs. “Do you know where they are?”  
  
Pressing his lips together, Tony watches the other agent stop writing on his note pad.  
  
“I don’t know. When they took me to the warehouse, I wore a hood. Thought we were somewhere in Capitol Hill, but it didn’t look like anywhere I’ve ever been. Wherever it was, it was quiet with lots of old industrial buildings. So I’m thinking maybe they might actually be in Southwest.”  
  
“Can you remember anything about the location?”  
  
“The warehouse was brick and we were in an alley with graffiti. Lime green and hot pink gang signs.” Tony closes his eyes, desperate to recount any fleeting detail that could lead him back there. When he can’t recall anything else, he shakes his head.  
  
“Do you have anything to tie Carreras to the trafficking? Any recordings? Any tapes? Conversations?”  
  
“Well, he mentioned an undercover agent that he ‘took care of’ a few months back. That couldn’t be –“  
  
“Veera Colvin’s step-son? His name’s Conner. Mighta been him. He was a nice kid, a little too gutsy for his own good.” Schaller makes a notation on his pad. “Did Carreras say where he dropped the body? Or anything else about him?”  
  
Tony decides not to say that Carreras likened Conner Colvin to a roach.  
  
Schaller’s lips pull into a tight line. “You got anything else?”  
  
When Tony drops his gaze to the table, Schaller flips his pad closed with a resounding finality.  
  
“You know I can’t mobilize a team without irrefutable proof. You know what irrefutable means, right?” He waits until Tony nods. “We need you to find that smoking gun to take Carreras down. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything without it.”  
  
“What about the girls?”  
  
Concern washes over Schaller’s bitter face before he shrugs it away.  
  
“You remember what happened with Losko, don’t you? If we move in now, we will save those girls. But what about the ones already en route, and what about those you don’t even know about yet? If you want to save them all and stop Carreras, it’ll take time. You need to be patient…we both do.”  
  
A tense silence settles over the pair as Tony mulls over the words. Before he knows what to say, the waitress places his pancakes and two containers of syrup on the table.  
  
“That enough for ya, hun?” She grins broadly, obviously trying to earn herself a decent tip.  
  
“More than enough.” He nods, watching Schaller dig into his eggs as she vanishes. “You got kids, Jamie?”  
  
“Yeah, two girls and a boy. Why?”  
  
“You don’t think those girls are somebody’s daughters?”  
  
When their eyes meet, the color drains from Schaller’s cheeks. He drops his eyes to his eggs, face contorting in revulsion as his fork clinks against the table. While he slides out of the booth, he throws a few wadded bills next to his plate. Before he leaves, Schaller leans in, close enough for Tony to smell the eggs on his breath.  
  
“Next check-in is within 72 hours, got it?”  
  
“Loud and clear.”  
  
Schaller squeezes Tony’s shoulder hard. “Bring me proof and we move.”  
  
“On it.”  
  
Tony leans out of the booth, watching the billowing trench retreat through the diner. When the tiny bell reverberates, the dark street swallows Schaller. Turning back to his dinner, he drowns his pancakes with enough syrup to make them float. Before he bothers to eat, he pushes his hand into his pocket, running his fingers over the cell Gibbs gave him for an emergency.  
  
 _The boss would move heaven and hell to save those girls._  
  
Sighing quietly, Tony accepts that Schaller might actually be right about their current situation. It isn’t only about those girls, but also those that will come after. His fingers move away from the phone and he turns his attention to the pancakes that disintegrate in their sticky immersion.  
  
 _Enrico Carreras will be stopped and for that, I need fuel._  
  
Without a second thought, he digs in.  
  
\--  
  
 **11:39pm – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Bounding through her lab, Abby Scuito’s head moves in time to her music. She carefully checks on Major Mass Spec. Satisfied that he’ll be able to endure the long night without her, she treats her computers to the careful inspection that she does whenever she leaves for the night. Once she’s sure that everyone will be comfortable in her absence, she doubles back to her inner office to collect her report from the printer. Before she reaches it, her screen saver grabs her attention. Enthralled by the pictures of her team that scroll across the monitor, she leans against the door frame and sighs.  
  
A shot of Tony with Bert blurs into one of Ziva at the helm of Major Mass Spec and finally fades into a picture of a shocked Tim by the lab freezer. When an image from the annual holiday party of her three Musketeers grinning at the camera with a humorless Gibbs lurking in the background materializes, she grins broadly.  
  
That night, Ziva discovered Jell-O shots.  
  
 _I’m just glad we weren’t there when she woke up the next morning…though it was pretty spiffy to see how she carries all of her back-up weapons._  
  
Her breath hitches and she smiles sorrowfully when an artsy shot of Bert that she took during equipment calibration appears. Next, a photo of the entire team with Palmer and Ducky from her birthday party scrolls across her screen. She turns away and flicks off the lights. Report completely forgotten, she heads out of her office and into the main lab. On her way to the door, she feels tension bubble in her stomach so she checks on Major Mass Spec, just one more time. Figuring that he’ll need the company, she scoops Bert from his lab stool and drops him onto the top of the lonesome machine.  
  
“Good job today, everyone. I’m impressed with the work. Let’s keep it up! We’ll catch some more bad guys tomorrow! Bert’s in charge until I get back,” she says, hitting the button that kills her stereo.  
  
The silence is deafening. She turns the lights off and enters the hallway. When the lab door hisses closed behind her, Abby lets out a quiet exhale. Just as she scoops her keys out of her purse, she hears the ding of the elevator down the hall.  
  
“Abs!” Gibbs hustles out, Caf-Pow in hand. When he reaches her, he quickly evaluates her miniskirt with its extremely dangerous hemline and savagely low-cut top. “Early night?”  
  
“Gibbs, it’s almost midnight. I’ve got a date.” He raises his eyebrows, nodding at the lab. “Really? You guys got another case already? What is with these Navy guys anyway? Are they all like nuts or something? Do you think there’s something in the water on those ships that makes them go crazy and want to kill each other? Maybe we should take some samples...But say, Gibbs, what’s the life expectancy for a petty officer these days? They really need to tell new recruits that because it’s not fair for them not to know they’ll get murdered before they even get promoted…”  
  
“Don’t know,” Gibbs shrugs, tailing her inside as the lights flicker back on.  
  
On their way back to her inner office, Abby snatches her remote from the lab bench. With one smash of a button, the dull thud of her music resonates through the lab, creating a barely perceptible shake to the glass divider. When she drops into her chair, she grabs her report off the printer and passes it to Gibbs. As he leafs through her findings, her brow knits in thought.  
  
“But wait, McGee said you guys arrested the guy who killed Dukakis?”  
  
“Yeah, he just confessed,” Gibbs replies, not looking up from her report.  
  
“Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to figure out that blackmail only works if you don’t kill the guy who’s paying you. But it’s great you solved the case.” She grins, hoisting her purse off her desk. Barely getting it over her shoulder, she drops back into her chair, the little color under her thick foundation draining away. “It’s Tony, isn’t it? Did he… Is he…He said everything would be fine. He said - he _promised_ that it would be, Gibbs. That means everything’s supposed to be fine. What happened?”  
  
Her panicked eyes meet Gibbs’, the first hints of tears gracing them.  
  
“Nothing’s wrong, Abs. Tony’s fine, he’s just not here,” he says, staring intently at the forensics reports while Abby tries to study his unreadable face.  
  
“Then what – “  
  
When the picture from the Christmas party floats over her monitor again, Abby loses her voice. Before she can stop herself, she jiggles the mouse to make it disappear. She can’t bear to look at their smiling faces anymore. Without her team together, the world just isn’t right.  
“Think you can get into his old precinct’s database to get the case file from his first undercover assignment?”  
  
“Well, maybe…and that’s a big maybe, Gibbs. For starters, it depends on whether or not they’re computerized. Some of these police departments are like dinosaurs, everything on typewriters and – “ She stops when she notices the file folder in Gibbs’ hands. Her lips curl into an awkward grin.  “Then it has to be online…and I’ll need a way to get on their server. Even that’s a bit of a long shot. For all I know, it’s in a box stuffed in some dark and dusty basement somewhere. Speaking of dark and dusty, you know how my evidence garage gets all icky if I don’t clean it regularly…can I get some probies to– “  
  
“Abs.”  
  
“Okay, fine, I’ll clean it next weekend. But why not ask McGee? He’s some sorta computer ninja, you’ll get that file so much faster.”  
  
“Colvin spooked him,” Gibbs admits, slouching against the computer table.  
  
“Colvin? Is that the dragon lady that sent Tony back into the cartel and threatened my – “ Gibbs’ nod cuts her off. When he gestures to the computer, she grins, saluting him. “Then aye, aye, Gibbs, I’m your woman. What exactly are we looking for?”  
  
“Don’t know yet, Abs.”  
  
“So you’ll know it when you see it? Got it. Want me to dig up some good stuff on the dragon lady while I’m at it?”  
  
The silent kiss to Abby’s cheek gives her the answer. With her attention fixated on her computer, she gives another salute. He passes her the stereo remote and she switches to the speaker in her lab. After she changes to a song that utilizes the harmonic capabilities of chainsaws, Abby allows the thump of the music pound through her, filling her with an overwhelming serenity.  She feels Gibbs drift away before returning to place Bert by her arm. Even though Major Mass Spec might get lonely, she figures that her presence in the lab should be enough.  
  
Already launching her internet connection, Abby sets up for her impending battle. Another soft kiss to the top of her head is all she gets before Gibbs is gone for good. While she researches the date for Tony’s original undercover assignment, she inhales deeply, catching the scent of a fruit medley. Her gaze whips to the CafPow that rests on the edge of the desk. Her lips are around the straw before it’s even in her hands, pulling a sip that sounds like a deep breath. She shudders with pleasure as the flavor devours her taste buds. By the time she turns back to her work, the container’s nearly empty.  
  
Somewhere on the other side of Washington, a young man that Gibbs would never like waits for Abby. The strobe lights in the poorly-lit bar streak across the ceiling as the thump of the music pounds through his brain. As the hours pass, an ashtray fills with his nervous habit and the tabletop in front of him becomes the final resting place for his empty beer bottles. When the music cuts out and the house lights rise, chasing away the intensity of the night, he finally accepts that Abby isn’t coming…


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : Minor violence as well as an attempted rape.

**Wednesday, October 25, 2006 – 11:01pm – Just Outside a Brownstone in Georgetown, MD –**  
  
Anthony Masterson’s days blend together so seamlessly that Tony feels as though he headlines in a poorly produced gangster film. From collecting outstanding debts to intimidating witnesses for their continued silence, Tony falls back into this former life with reckless abandon. With every passing day, he recognizes himself less in the mirror. The fights have peppered his jawline with bruises and the sleepless nights give him the sunken eyes of a world-weary man.  
  
Thankfully, the hard work doesn’t go unnoticed.  
  
Seemingly impressed by the theatrics, Carreras takes a mounting interest in Tony’s presence. As the tasks increase in complexity and sensitivity, Tony manages to repair his fractured relationship with the Angel Caido. Even though he’s quickly earning his old position within the cartel as one of Carreras’ most trusted enforcers, he’s still not immune to grunt work.  
  
When one of Carreras’ newer recruits failed to arrive for an evening shift, Tony got the call to accompany one of the girls and her ‘handler’ on a job. Sagging against the passenger seat of a rundown Chrysler LeBaron, Tony stares numbly at the brownstone across the street. He shifts his weight, making a face when the vinyl squeaks under his back. Checking the time on the dashboard, he wonders just how long it’ll take for the ordeal to be over.  
  
The smell of greasy French fries assaults Tony’s nose as the man in the driver’s seat plunges into his bag of fast food they picked up on the way over. Ramon Rodriguez purposefully unwraps a cheeseburger, grinning at Tony’s angry glare. When he holds the burger out, Tony rolls his eyes dramatically before snapping them back to the house. While the agent keeps himself alert for pedestrians who might be suspicious of the rusting vehicle parked in an upscale neighborhood, Ramon demolishes his burger in a few bites before rummaging through the bag for another.  
  
Tony scowls at the window.  
  
 _Maybe the Probie isn’t the worst partner in the history of stakeouts._  
  
 _At least he keeps his attention on the surroundings while he eats._  
  
“Come on man, quit makin’ faces like that. If you wanted one, you shoulda bought one.”  
  
“Nah, I’m not hungry. Just thinkin’ about all the places I could be right now.”  
  
“Me too man, me too,” Ramon agrees, staring intently at his burger before diving in.  
  
Dipping down in his seat, Tony squints through the grimy film accumulated on the car’s exterior to study the picturesque house on the quiet city street. With its window boxes brimming with fall flowers and the carefully crafted red wood door, it resembles an affluent city-dweller’s American dream.  Lights on all three floors burn in the night.  Tony watches two shadows duck past the curtains, wondering what the man who lives there would want with a teenage girl.  
  
He leans his hands onto the dashboard, tapping his fingers until his nail sticks to something in the dark. He finds a piece of candy that’s melted into the change on top. Cringing he drops his hands into his lap, checks the time again, unable to believe that only minutes have passed.  
  
Exhaling raggedly, Tony reaches for his phone just when a muffled scream shatters the silence.  
  
“You hear that?” he asks.  
  
Balancing his sloppy burger against his chest, Ramon wipes his hand across his pants before he stretches towards the radio. Tony swats it away, straining his ears until he hears a softer shriek.  
  
His heart rises in his throat.  
  
 _Why did I bring her here?_  
  
“Tony, you alright, man? You don’t look so good. You sure you’re not hungry?” Ramon asks slowly, passing his fast food bag to the agent.  
  
There’s another quiet shout, and Tony catches his own reflection in the side view mirror. Unable to look himself in the eye, he swallows hard.  
  
 _Can I really listen to that girl getting raped?_  
  
Tony throws open the car door, barreling into the frigid night. He’s halfway up the front steps, hands balled into tight fists, when Ramon grabs his shoulder.  
  
“Look, man, I know this is your first time doin’ this gig. But we’ve got one rule out here….never go inside. Don’t matter what you hear or see, you never interfere with a customer. Drop off and pick up, that’s it. If necessary, clean up. What they do…that’s their business.”  
  
When Tony glances back to the window again, he sees a smaller figure dart past before a larger one follows. Wrenching his arm from Ramon’s grasp, he bolts up the steps and throws himself against the front door. The strangled yelp inside tightens his chest. He rocks his weight back, kicking the door open. Rushing over the threshold, Tony barely manages to suppress his urge to announce himself as a federal agent.  
  
He storms into a perfectly decorated sitting room, nearly wiping out on a settee. His eyes dart over the carefully coordinated furniture until he locates the teenager cowered on the other side of a sofa, face buried in her hands. Directly in front of her, an older man stands frozen in shock. When their eyes meet, his kind features twist maliciously. Tony stares at the man’s receding hairline and thin build for a long moment, desperately trying to place the face. When he raises his finger accusingly, Tony realizes that he’d seen the same movement in a television ad that ran for a local politician.  
  
 _I can’t believe this is the guy who’s trying to get elected because he’s a family man._  
  
Disgust bubbles in Tony’s chest.  
  
“You’re supposed to stay –“  
  
Tony’s fist colliding with the man’s face ends the thought.  
  
Flailing backwards, he slams into the wall before he slides to the floor. When the blood begins to drip from his nose onto his shirt, he stares slack-jawed at Tony.  
  
Just inside the doorway, Ramon stands frozen, watching the scene unfold.  
  
“Tony? What did you do?”  
  
Tony holds up a warning hand and heads towards the man again. A quiet sniffle makes him turn back to the girl huddled behind the couch instead. His heart clenches when she murmurs something unintelligible. He holds his arm out, and she scrambles off the floor, burying her face in his chest the moment she reaches him.  
  
Her tears soak through his shirt.  
  
“You aren’t supposed to be in here,” the man growls, voice nasal as the blood pours through his fingers.  
  
“And you aren’t supposed to be a monster.”  
  
Using the wall to support himself, the man pushes to his feet. When Tony glares at him, he squares his shoulders. When he sets his jaw to seem threatening, Tony bites back a laugh at the way he appears anything but.  
  
“I’ll have your head.”  
  
Tony pulls the girl closer, shielding her eyes as he retrieves his Glock from the back of his jeans.  
  
“Whaddya gonna do? Call the cops?” Tony cackles, shaking his head. “You had a good time tonight, got what you paid for. You will not call for our services again. If you do, I’ll be coming back alone. Do you understand?”  
  
The man sags deeper into the wall, the anger melting from his face. They wait in tense silence until he finally nods slowly. Ramon exhales loudly, running his hand over his face. Swiveling to glare him down, Tony keeps his gun pointed at their customer.  
  
“Everything went as planned, got it?”  
  
Fear blasts through Ramon’s eyes as he bobs his head. Without another word, Tony tucks his gun away and guides the girl out. The chilly air instantly cools his boiling skin and he shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it around her bare shoulders. With tears brimming in her eyes, she smiles tightly before she speaks animatedly in a foreign tongue. Tony opens the backdoor of the car and eases her inside, listening to her pleading tone utter words that he doesn’t understand. Crouching on the sidewalk, Tony takes her hand.  
  
She recoils under his touch, sliding away from him in the backseat.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, sinking into the seat next to her.  
  
When he presses his lips together, she collapses into his shoulder. More tears come. As they soak through his shirt, he knows the FBI must move before any more of these girls’ lives are destroyed. He slumps against the backseat with a defeated sigh.  
  
 _Who do I even call?_  
  
 _Schaller just wants more evidence. He doesn’t understand how many lives an ironclad case will ruin._  
  
 _And if I call Gibbs, it’ll cause more trouble than my team needs right now._  
  
Tony listens to the quiet sobs that fill the car, feeling his heart break at her trembling.  
  
 _I need to end this._  
  
Tony stares blankly out the window at a thin tree that sways in the wind. When Ramon slides into the driver’s seat, Tony doesn’t take the hood that’s held out. Instead, he glares at the thug until the ignition turns over and the car moves away from the curb. Rubbing the sobbing girl’s back, Tony watches the lights of the store fronts outside the vehicle blend into a continuous stream of indiscernible color.  
  
Trying to calm himself down, he counts the number of side streets on the way to the warehouse. When Ramon takes a right to avoid a red light, Tony gapes at the logo on a car they pass. He’d recognize the insignia of the only pizza place that uses the good kind of Parmesan cheese anywhere. Peering over his shoulder through the back window, he watches the red and white emblem fade into the night. His nerves are on edge as the illuminated storefronts are replaced by derelict warehouses.  
  
When Ramon parks his battered car behind Carreras’ hideout, Tony’s chest tightens.  
  
 _We’re only a few miles away from the Navy Yard._


	16. Chapter 16

**Thursday, October 26, 2006 – 10:42am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Gibbs hops off the elevator and follows the thumping music all the way to the forensics lab. Chainsaws and thrashing guitars herald his arrival. He finds Abby seated on the floor in the lotus position. Cocking his head to the side, he studies her meditating form. With one hand curled thumb to middle finger in a search for eternity while the other presses firmly against the linoleum to keep her grounded, Abby purses her lips and exhales loudly.  
  
The hints of a smile sneaks onto his face for the first time in days.  
  
 _Only she could meditate to music that could wake Ducky’s dead._  
  
“Abs.”  
  
Her body trembles, eyes widening in surprise, as she turns to find Gibbs leaning against the doorframe. Before she can scramble to her feet, he moves forward to pull her up.  
  
“I didn’t expect to see you for a while. You usually come down when I’ve got something,” she rambles, eying his empty hands. “Did you guys catch another case? Because I didn’t get any evidence yet. McGee would’ve called me, right? I know he forgot last time and then showed up with a buncha stuff, but my life’s easier when I know something’s coming.”  
  
Gibbs shakes his head, gesturing towards her inner office. Leading the way, she snatches the remote off her bench and increases the volume of her music. Just before the door glides closed, she collects Bert off her stool. She falls into the chair at her desk, stroking the stuffed hippo while her computer boots up. When the thump of a new song shakes the glass windows, Gibbs looks over his shoulder.  
  
“Okay, now that we’re all here. What’s going on? Any word from Tony?”  
  
“He’ll call when he needs to. You get that case file from Baltimore yet?”  
  
“You betcha,” she says, pulling a stack of paper out from under a pile of magazines and science journals. “I got the e-mail from the records officer in Baltimore a little while ago and was just about to call you. You know what’s surprising, Gibbs? For such a big case, there’s almost nothing here. It’s just a bunch of monthly status reports from Tony and some guy named Walden. Who’s that?”  
  
“His old partner.”  
  
“Well, okay, but all they talk about are Carreras’ drug running, some bad guys they hung out with, where the cocaine came from and where it was headed. Got a couple mentions of guys that Tony got into WitSec,” she relays, passing the print-outs to Gibbs.  
  
Nodding slowly, he flips through the pages. The run-on sentences and consistent misspellings don’t surprise him.  
  
 _At least DiNozzo knows the difference between then and than now._  
  
“So what happened to ‘em?” he asks, glancing back to Abby.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Those guys DiNozzo got into WitSec.”  
  
“Oh yeah. Somebody got custody transferred from the Marshals to the FBI. When the case got thrown out, the witnesses had their protection revoked. Five guys in total, two were murdered, two died under mysterious circumstances and one vanished from a safe house, never to be heard from again.”  
  
“All hits?”  
  
“Could be. I can’t get into the FBI reports to find out.”  
  
“Think you can try again?”  
  
“No can do, Bossman.” Abby shakes her head emphatically. “I accidentally set off a couple of security programs and I got out just before they could follow my connection back here. If you want me to try again, I’m going to need help. Might be time to ask McGee.”  
  
“Whaddya got on Colvin?” he asks, starting through the report again.  
  
Abby’s dark-stained lips contort into a wicked smile as she loads a personnel file on the computer monitor. While Gibbs tries to read it over her shoulder, the blobs that should forms words blend together. Squinting at the screen, he pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket.  
  
He debates whether he can use Abby's microscope to read the font.  
  
“What’s this?”  
  
“Why, Gibbs, I thought you’d never ask. Veera Colvin, maiden name Jackson, born in…Well, I won’t reveal her actual age, but I will say that she looks great!” She shrinks under Gibbs’ glare. “Not that that’s important…let’s see, she’s been with the FBI since she graduated from Pepperdine in, well, a long time ago. Started out in the New York branch’s security division as an undercover agent. Coming in at the tail end of women’s rights, she seemed to be in the right place at the right time and got promoted real quick over and over again. Total girl power stuff – until she had the Carreras case while she was Head of the Office of Law Enforcement Coordination.”  
  
“Explains a lot.”  
  
“Yeah, she was supposed to provide resources to the Baltimore Metro Police. Seemed like one of her agents convinced her to claim jurisdiction on his case and transfer it to the FBI. Probably wanted to take all the credit for herself. You don’t forget things like that. Reminds me of when I was in second grade and Mary-Lou Schlosser stole my idea for our class project on pirates –“  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Well, not much. No promotions since the fiasco. It still pops up in her personnel file from time to time. Just counts of agents being sent out to monitor their activities. About six months ago, her step-son, Conner, earned an undercover assignment right out of FLETC. His official status with the agency is ‘missing, presumed dead.’ Couple of the local papers even ran his obituary,” she continues, sending a document to her printer.  
  
Gibbs stares at the accumulating pages. When the personnel image of an attractive young man slides out, he glowers at the stack of paper. Face full of hope and excitement, Conner Colvin never had a chance to take down a cartel alone. Another page slides off the spool, swallowing the young agent.  
  
Gibbs’ frown deepens.  
  
“Thanks, Abs.”  
  
“Gibbs, wait. I’m not done yet.” Before he can even move, Abby latches onto his arm. “I found more about that girl from the Chase case. I finally got to run the bone sample and you’ll never guess what it contains. Give up yet?” When Gibbs stares at her stone-faced, she nods excitedly. “The exact same minerals as her teeth! Which means she spent about ten years in the same place before she came here. Now before you say that we already knew that because we did…already know that…I found something really interesting when I examined the dirt on her shoes.”  
  
Registering a few clicks with her mouse, she displays a bright yellow, elliptical object with a dimpled surface. Grinning triumphantly at Gibbs, she frames the monitor with her hands like a game show hostess. Brow furrowed, he glances between her expectant face and the blob on the screen.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Her bottom lip juts out as her bubble bursts. Another click brings up an image of a huge conifer.  
  
“Pollen from _Larix sibirica,_ ” she replies, jabbing her finger at the image. “The Siberian Larch, native to the tundra of western Russia from the Finnish border to the Yenisei Valley. So she’s –“  
  
“Definitely Russian. Good work, Abs, owe you a CafPow.” Gibbs kisses her forehead.  
  
“Well, I actually sent the sample to my friend who works in the botany division over at American. Since you’re the reason I missed our date the other night and he had to do some research for me…well, I think you might owe him a Caf-Pow too.” When Abby grins hopefully, he raises his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he gets it.”  
  
He just smirks as he rushes for the elevator.  
  
\--  
  
 **11:58am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Hunched over his desk, Tim skims the file on its surface for the third time that morning. With the Dukakis case officially closed thanks to a well-played interrogation and no thanks to him, the team now uses their down-time to review cold cases as they wait for some criminal to break the law. While he usually enjoys the short breaks and the early nights the lull in work brings, Tim doesn’t think he’ll be getting home before the nightly news began any day this week.  
  
When the words on the page begin to merge, Tim shakes his head, trying to force his exhausted brain to focus. Without thinking, he glances over to Tony’s empty desk, almost unwilling to heed Gibbs’ advice and accept that Tony isn’t here (and won’t be for quite some time). His mind wanders to their typical cold case ritual that consists of random quotes from obscure police films no one but Tony has seen, copious amounts of one-sided spitball warfare, and greasy food from one of their favorite restaurants.  
  
Tim sighs when he realizes the only thing more distracting than Tony’s presence is his absence.  
  
The quiet clacking of someone’s keyboard disrupts Tim’s thoughts and he surveys his team. With her lips pulled in a tight line, Ziva actively scribbles notes on a piece of paper, pausing occasionally to check something on her computer. Since Gibbs banished Kenji to the overflow desk after he tried to sit at Tony’s, Tim assumes the probationary agent to be working on a case even though he isn’t visible.  Unable to muster the energy to check on him, Tim stares blankly at the file on his desk, trying to determine how he selected one with absolutely no computer evidence.  
  
Without a lead that takes him into his realm, Tim feels completely useless.  
  
 _First the Dukakis case, now this. Can’t I do anything right?_  
  
Starting to reread the information again, he grimaces. With how many times he reviewed this case already, he should know the reports by heart. When he first started it a few days ago, he read and read, figuring he could stop when he reached some grand epiphany.  
  
It never came.  
  
No matter how hard he tries, Tim can’t seem to connect the dots to determine the identity of the murderer. Even though the words are emblazoned on his muddled brain and the diagrams that Tony taught him to do litter his desk, he still can’t make the connections. He runs his hand over his face, knowing that his fresh eyes and Ivy-league education should be more than enough to close out several years old investigation.  
  
 _But it doesn’t help that I just can’t think._  
  
As much as he wants to slide the file back into its box, Tim refuses to accept defeat so quickly. Hopping out of his chair, he cracks his back and decides yet another trip to the vending machine is exactly what he needs to fuel his search. Ziva's expressionless gaze tracks him out of the bullpen. With all of the trips he’s made to the staff lounge over the past few days, she no longer bothers to ask where he’s headed.  
  
Rummaging through the loose change in his pocket on the way, Tim debates about what he should purchase this time. He doesn’t even need to see the inventory to settle on a bag of pretzels. Since the machine’s only stocked on Wednesday and he finished off the last Nutter Butters this morning, he figures it’s time to try something new.  
  
 _If I don’t close out this case soon, I’m going to go broke._  
  
He jiggles the coins in his hand, pausing just outside the lounge when he hears a tense exhale inside.  
  
“She’s coming here now. I got her tied up with security….we don’t have much time.”  
  
The sentence grabs his interest, and Tim leans against the wall, straining his ears to pick up the conversation. Even though his mother used to chide the bad habit in his childhood, he still he can’t break it as he ages. He slides his money back into his pocket.  
  
“What’s going on, Tobias?” The sound of Gibbs’ voice twists Tim’s gut.  
  
“Colvin. ” There’s more panting “She’s on her way, otherwise we’d be doing this in your office. I don’t want her to see us together so she doesn’t know I told you first. There were complications on DiNozzo’s undercover op.”  
  
“Whaddya mean ‘complications’?”  
  
“He missed his check-ins with Schaller. We haven’t been able to reach him.”  
  
“So you think he’s dead?”  
  
Tim’s heart slams against his sternum.  
  
“Dead?” Fornell breathes the word, pausing for several beats. “Good G-d, no, Jethro. His cell still pings in a bunch of locations known to be Angel Caido territory. We just assumed that he couldn’t make it to the meets without compromising his cover...until one of Carreras’ henchman turned up dead in Chinatown.”  
  
There’s a looming silence as someone’s shoes scuff over the linoleum. Tim doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he bolts back to the bullpen. He doesn’t even notice how tightly he clenches his teeth. While he launches his internet browser, Ziva’s concerned eyes find him.  
  
"You did not get a snack, McGee?”  
  
“Already ate all the good stuff,” he replies, fingers slamming against the keyboard as he starts an attack on the FBI database. Even though he knows Colvin will be able to trace the intrusion back to his desktop, he doesn’t have the time to be covert. Tim figures that a few years of his future might be an acceptable sacrifice to warn Tony about the coming storm. When Ziva attempts a conversation again, he shakes his head. “Finish your case.”  
  
Once he gains entry to the database, Tim quickly picks his way into the agency’s active cases. He accesses the Carreras files, his blood running colder with every word that he skims. From Schaller’s reports about Tony’s missed contacts to the confirmation of Gibbs’ suspicion that Carreras decided to supplement his income with human trafficking, it all makes him nauseous.  
  
Tim finally gets to the latest addition, a copy of Metro’s report on the murder of Pedro Morales. Found dead last night in an alleyway, the thug had an impressive number of warrants and an even more impressive number of crimes attributed to him. While death is an occupational hazard for those employed by Enrico Carreras, there usually isn’t a multitude of evidence.  
  
The list makes Tim’s eyes widen. Forensics would have a field day. Hell, Abby would probably be ecstatic to receive a five-point fingerprint match, several drops of A+ blood and a few hairs in a similar color to the suspect….as long as they didn’t belong to one of her friends.  
  
While Tim knows the blood and hairs aren’t enough to convict Tony, the finger print on the murder weapon might be. Pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes, he glances back to the screen in hopes that the documents have vanished.  
  
When he finds them still there, he rereads the forensic report, feeling his panic rise.  
  
The murder weapon, a serial numberless Beretta 92FS, makes Tim stop dead. He recalls how after the Christmas party Tony mercilessly teased Ziva about her backup Beretta until Tim told him how James Bond used to carry one in the books. Obviously disappointed in his idol, it was months before Tony would even breathe Bond’s name in conversation.  
  
To this day, Tim still finds his superior’s aversion to Berettas to be irrational.  
  
 _But when is Tony ever logical?_  
  
“That’s a chick’s gun,” Tim murmurs.  
  
“What is that, McGee?” Ziva asks, lifting her gaze from her file.  
  
“I feel like chicken. For lunch. Yeah, I feel like chicken for lunch,” Tim lies, feeling his face flush as he pulls Tony’s undercover cell number from the report. While Kenji appears over the partition, sharing a confused glance with Ziva, Tim traces the number to a location in Columbia Heights. Jotting down the address on a Post-It, his gaze darts between the two. “Nobody wants chicken? That’s okay, I guess it’s falafel again.”  
  
While the rest of his team studies him, Tim pulls a few screen shots of the forensics report, quickly setting up a time-delay e-mail to Abby that will send in a few hours. It should give him enough time to find Tony, tell him what happened and get back without Gibbs finding out.  
  
“Thought you were over falafel, Agent McGee?” Kenji asks, cocking his eyebrow at Ziva while Tim shuts down his computer.  
  
“Changed my mind,” he says, grabbing his gun and badge. When he sees his cell phone in the drawer, Tim debates about bringing it. With a shake of his head, he closes the drawer.  
  
 _The last thing I need is for someone to trace me to Tony._  
  
“I shall accompany you,” Ziva announces.  
  
“No, that’s okay!” Tim exclaims, chuckling nervously at his outburst. “Don’t worry about it, Ziva. Stay and work on your case. I think I need a mental break anyway…falafel with extra cucumbers for you?” When she nods, Tim points at the TAD. “No pickles, right Kenj?”  
  
An approaching group, deep in conversation, chases Tim out of the bullpen before Kenji gets a chance to reply. Figuring it’s Colvin and her entourage en route for their showdown with Gibbs, Tim decides on the stairs. Just as he’s about to enter the stairwell, a muted discussion inside makes him pause against the door.  
  
When he hears the door thud several stories up, Tim shoots down the steps, hurdling through the emergency exit into the bright autumn sunshine. Not even looking over his shoulder for fear of seeing Gibbs, Tim jogs to the bus stop and hops onto the first one headed for Columbia Heights. When it pulls away from the curb, Tim falls into a seat, watching the building vanish outside the window.  
  
 _Thanks G-d, I won’t be there when all hell breaks loose._


	17. Chapter 17

  
**12:38pm – Staff Lounge – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
“Jethro, I think it’s time to head back. Security can only keep the beast busy for so long,” Fornell mutters, heading to the entrance. His dress shoes squeak on the linoleum as he slides past the vending machines, and Gibbs cringes at the noise.  
  
Emitting a hollow grunt, Gibbs leads the way to the bullpen past the interrogation and the stairs. He inhales deeply, the air smelling fresher than he’s used to in this stretch of the building. It’s cooler than normal, almost as though someone has just taken the stairs. He glances back to Fornell, shaking his head when his friend tries for conversation. The scuffing of their shoes along the threadbare carpet is the only dialogue that carries them the rest of their way.  
  
Gibbs’ sole focus is readying for the impending battle, readying to face-off with Colvin so he can get some of her resources to find his wayward senior agent.  
  
They haven't reached the bullpen when the team leader feels the hair on the back of his neck rise.  
  
 _Someone’s watching us._  
  
His eyes find Director Shepard on the upper floor, just outside her office.  
  
“Agent Gibbs, Agent Fornell,” she greets icily, gesturing for them to follow.  
  
Not needing a second invitation, Gibbs quickly checks on the rest of his team as he shoots up the stairs. Three young men in cheap, shapeless suits stand around the bullpen as Ziva and Kenji wait in the center. The probationary agent stares helplessly at the legal pad in his hands while the Israeli narrows her eyes at one of the FBI agents, clutching her letter opener like a knife. When Gibbs notices McGee’s absence, his desk plastered with an open file, he wonders where his agent might be.  
  
By the time Gibbs hurries past Shepard’s barely college-aged secretary, rage washes away the concern he has for his team. He hurdles into the office, narrowing his eyes when he notices Colvin seated at the long table that’s used mostly for Shepard’s hotshot meetings.  
  
The doors thud closed and Gibbs squares his shoulder, facing her.  
  
“Look, Agent Gibbs,” she starts, “I know you’ll think this is – “  
  
“Cut to the chase,” Gibbs growls.  
  
“We lost Agent DiNozzo,” she replies, tapping her finger on the file in front of her.  
  
“Whaddya mean, ‘you lost him?’ How the hell do you lose my agent?”  
  
“He’s gone dark, hasn’t contacted Agent Schaller since we dropped him off near a known Angel Caido hang-out in Columbia Heights. We agreed to first check-in within 24 hours, then subsequent ones in 72. DiNozzo skipped them all after drop-off and Schaller hasn’t been able to re-establish contact. We assumed that business with the cartel made it unsafe for him to slip away…but then there was this.”  
  
Pressing her lips together, Colvin slides her folder within Gibbs’ reach. He leans forward to the table, snatching it away. When he flips through the pages, he does his best to decipher the mash of shapes that serve as words in the FBI’s diminutive typeset. As he rips his reading glasses out of his pocket, he glares at Colvin as though the font size is her fault.  
  
He skims the file quickly, finding it identical to Fornell’s information earlier.  
  
“And?”  
  
“Gibbs, it’s enough to consider bringing Agent DiNozzo in for questioning,” Shepard speaks up, glancing at Colvin for direction. “While he is a highly respected agent, perhaps – “  
  
“Come on, Jen, you really think Tony would knock off some lowlife?” The look in her eyes adds fuel to Gibbs’ anger. “Give me one good reason why.”  
  
“Maybe Morales found out he was undercover and he needed to maintain his identity. Or maybe Carreras made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Colvin suggests.  
  
“So you really think Carreras went all _Godfather_ on him?” Fornell interjects, smirking slightly.  
  
“Without talking to him,” Colvin continues, deliberately ignoring the attempt at humor, “we don’t know….that account at _The Sand Dollar Bank_ could be a very good reason to assume his cover.”  
  
Gibbs blinks slowly, face contorting in a sneer as he barely suppresses a laugh. “Ever think somebody might’ve set him up?”  
  
“Why would anyone want to do that?”  
  
“I don’t know yet, but I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”  
  
“Agent Gibbs, I don’t think that would be prudent,” Shepard says, shaking her head. “Right now, I think it’s best for you and your team to continue with their current caseload. I’d like you to be available to answer the FBI’s questions about Agent DiNozzo.”  
  
Colvin nods her assent. “We need more information so we can – “  
  
“Issue a warrant for DiNozzo’s arrest,” Fornell blurts out.  
  
“It’s the only way we can bring him without blowing his cover. We have to figure out exactly what happened,” Colvin says.  
  
“If you issue a warrant, you’re giving him a death sentence if the cartel finds out.” When she shrugs apathetically, Gibbs doesn’t hold back.  
“You really want him to end up like Conner?”  
  
The instant he sees the way Colvin’s shoulders slouch, Gibbs regrets his words, wishing he could step back behind the line he just crossed. While he now knows how to maintain a severe separation between his work and personal lives, he can clearly remember how life can be for those who don’t.  
  
But for how deeply he buried his secrets, he would never want them dredged up.  
  
Not like this.  
  
“This isn’t about my stepson,” she roars, face turning red with either fury or grief, “but in case you’re wondering, I’ve spent months waiting for the call that someone’s finally found Conner’s body. I wouldn’t wish this for anyone and I’ll be damned if you drag the boy that I raised into this circus. Here’s what it comes down to Agent Gibbs : your agent’s running amok, doing G-d knows what, with our training and our resources. And it’s time to bring him in…so we can talk.”  
  
“Then find him yourself,” Gibbs says with a shrug.  
  
“I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice,” Colvin growls, leaping out of her seat.  
  
When she rushes towards him, Gibbs' blood begins to boil. Just as Colvin gets within striking distance, Shepard slides between the two of them.  
  
“I think we all better calm down! Agent Gibbs, you need to take a minute.” He steps towards the door while Colvin turns back to the table. “Veera, where’s Agent DiNozzo been lately?”  
  
Gibbs exhales loudly, meeting Fornell’s gaze as he paces the length of the director’s office. Every time he slams his foot against the plush carpet, he grinds his heel. He just needs to refocus to the task at hand. The breathing exercises Mallard taught him don’t work.  
  
“DiNozzo hasn’t been back to his FBI apartment for a few days,” Colvin reports, twisting the case file in her hands. “We’ve been monitoring his cell activity since he left. If it’s on, which it usually isn’t…he’s at the known Angel Caido hang-outs. We’re trying to figure out a way to pick him up without blowing his cover and tipping off Carreras. That would destroy our case.”  
  
“Again,” Gibbs sneers.  
  
“Agent Gibbs, that’s enough,” Shepard snaps, glaring him down. “Veera, I assure that all of my agents will work with you to our fullest capacity to aid in your...- ” she pauses, carefully choosing her words, “- ...recovery of Agent DiNozzo.”  
  
“Thank you.” Colvin smiles viciously, holding Gibbs’ gaze. “Do you mind if a few agents stay behind to keep an eye on Agent Gibbs and his team?”  
  
Shepard shakes her head. “Not at all, feel free to.”  
  
“I’ll stay,” Fornell offers.  
  
“Excuse me?” Colvin asks.  
  
“I’ll stay with Agent Gibbs and his team. You’ll want every available agent back at the office to run down leads, won’t you Veera? I’ll keep an eye on everyone here so you can focus your efforts on Agent DiNozzo.” Fornell’s features tighten until Colvin nods.  
  
“Agreed…Tobias, keep an eye on everyone, and thank you for your support, Jenny. I’ll remember this…” Colvin says, heading towards the exit. She stops for a second to glare over her shoulder at Gibbs.  
  
Then she’s gone.  
  
Without even looking at Shepard, Gibbs rushes out of the office. When he and Fornell reach the bullpen, Colvin waits with her minions, evaluating his team.  
  
“Where’s Agent McGee?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at one of her agents.  
  
Completely dumbfounded, Kenji glances up from his legal pad at his spot behind Gibbs’ desk.  
  
“Didn’t he just go for – “  
  
“He’s with Abby,” Ziva says suddenly.  
  
Gibbs can instantly tell she’s lying, and something in his gut burns.  
  
“Abby?” Colvin repeats.  
  
“Their forensic specialist,” Fornell explains, rapping a file against Gibbs’ back. “I think you’d like her.”  
  
“Alright. Well then, I’ll leave you to it, Tobias.” Colvin grins at Gibbs. “Remember if anything goes awry, it’s your job. Time for the rest of us to head back.”  
  
Gibbs angrily watches the group of FBI agents walk to the elevator, watching that they’re actually leaving. Before the doors even close, he turns to find Kenji trying to slide out from behind his desk. The probationary agent’s cheeks flush and he pulls his legal pad in front of his face. Pausing by the filing cabinets, he tries to blend into his surroundings. Gibbs walks over to the younger man, pushing the paper away. Kenji’s terrified eyes meet his.  
  
“I’m sorry, Agent Gibbs, uh, uh, er, sir…I didn’t touch your stuff.”  
  
When Gibbs clenches his teeth, his jaw cracks.  
  
"Where's McGee?"  
  
“He – he – he, he, um, er...“ Kenji stutters into a nervous laugh. After an exasperated eye roll, Gibbs lands a smack on the back of the probationary agent’s head and turns his attention to Ziva instead.  
  
“He went to pick up lunch,” she reports, checking her watch.  
  
“Call him now. Tell him we’ll meet at my house.”  
  
Nodding tensely, Ziva picks her phone off the cradle and quickly dials. When a soft jazz tune starts from Tim’s desk, Kenji moves over to it, yanking open the top drawer to produce a cell phone. His lips pull in a tight line as he passes it to Gibbs.  
  
The ringing stops when Gibbs hurls Tim’s phone into the wall.


	18. Chapter 18

**1:04pm – Somewhere in Columbia Heights - Washington, DC –**  
  
Too busy confirming his current location on the street sign outside the bus window, Tim doesn’t bother to check the foot traffic until he hits the sidewalk. When he notices a group of thugs heading towards him, he tries to retreat, but his back collides with the already closed doors. When the bus lurches away from the curb, Tim sucks in a deep breath, watching the rough-looking group of young men approach him. With his suit and trench coat, Tim knows he looks like an easy target for a robbery.  
  
His muscles tense as he readies to reach for his Sig.  
  
The crowd swaggers past Tim, far too engrossed in their conversation to even notice him.  
  
He lets out a quiet sigh, taking a few seconds to survey his surroundings. Dilapidated buildings with boarded-up and shattered windows line the trash-ridden street. He stares at a vacant storefront, trying to translate the Spanish graffiti spray-painted across the grimy glass. It might say something about avoiding a local gang’s turf…or the best place to buy bananas.  
  
 _Maybe I shouldn’t have switched my language class from Spanish to German after freshman year…_  
  
Squinting against the vibrant afternoon sun, Tim tries to decide which direction to take to find the address that’s scrawled on the Post-It in his pocket. When he sees another group of men approaching, Tim moves down the filthy sidewalk, surprised by just how rundown this section of the neighborhood is. Even though he’s been in Columbia Heights on a few cases, he can’t believe how different this part seems from the areas that he’s seen from the backseat of a federally-issued sedan.  
  
By the time he finds Tony’s approximate location, the frigid air leaves Tim drawing his trench coat tighter. He stares at the few buildings on the way to the end of the block. Most are vacant with visibly empty interiors, the layers of grime and dust so thick that Tim wonders just how long they’ve lain abandoned. The only two places still open for business are a seedy liquor store with a window so filthy that Tim can’t see inside and an unassuming taqueria that has its door ajar, releasing the smell of authentic Mexican food onto the sidewalk.  
  
Tim inhales deeply, figuring he might as well start with the more inviting of the pair.  
  
 _I can always get a snack if Tony isn’t here._  
  
Tim reads the hand-painted sign above the door, assuming that the graphic of the globe and the Spanish words mean that Don Julio’s tacos actually are world famous. He studies the few patrons that mill around the restaurant. His heart sinks when he doesn’t see Tony.  
  
Just as he’s about to head inside, a hand suddenly grabs his upper arm. Tim stiffens when a soft body presses into his. The stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes hit him long before he sees the scantily clad woman latched onto him. Her sunken eyes and the deep lines on her face make her appear older than she probably is. When she shoots him a toothless grin and reaches for his pants, his cheeks blaze.  
  
“Heya, cutie…I’m Gretchen. See anything you like?” she says, leaning forward to display her cleavage.  
  
“Not really...” Tim falters, closing his eyes for a second. “Um, uh…I mean, no thank you?”  
  
Gretchen explodes with several imaginative curses that he’s never heard in his life. Before he can wretch from her grasp, she shoves him roughly forward, the momentum carrying him through the front door of the taqueria. When he finally regains his composure, Tim grins awkwardly at the man behind the counter. Rolling his eyes dramatically, the cook turns back to his task while Tim surveys the restaurant’s close quarters. The few customers that he saw through the front window have taken up residence in one of the booths by the door. In the lone-standing table towards the rear, Tim notices the back of Tony’s head across from a thick-faced Hispanic man in a tan leather coat.  
  
Tim instantly recognizes Enrico Carreras from his research.  
  
When the man glances towards him, their eyes meet and the agent’s blood runs cold.  
  
 _Maybe Tony was right when he said Carreras doesn’t have a soul._  
  
Tim visibly flinches, flicking his gaze to the menu. His stomach growls at the list of choices on the hand painted sign overhead. Deciding to grab lunch until he can approach Tony, Tim chooses a lengua taco at random. Just as he starts to order, the man behind the counter ducks away.  
  
“Hey, I’m ready,” Tim says, stepping forward to see where the cook disappeared to.  
  
Something solid presses into his back, pushing him against the divider. Heart slamming in his chest, he glances back to the booth to see Carreras jerk his head towards the back of the restaurant.  
  
“Move. No sound,” a man’s voice behind him says.  
  
Tim nods slowly, and a hand grips his arm, directing him behind the counter and through the massive kitchen. The smell of spices and greasy meat cooking in the large pots that lay abandoned on a commercial stove turns Tim’s stomach. His eyes dart over empty food stations and piles of tortillas as he tries to figure out an escape plan. When they pass by an open door that leads to an alley, the hold on his arm tightens. The next moment, Tim is yanked into a small office.  
  
He's shoved face first against the wall with what he figures is a gun in his back, and his Sig vanishes from his hip, holster and all. A hand picks through his pockets, removing his wallet and badge. After a more thorough search, Tim loses his handcuffs and the tiny knife that he carries on his right ankle. Once there’s nothing left, he’s pushed towards a corner on the far side of the room.  
  
When the man gestures for him to sit on the floor, Tim complies, feeling the rough drywall slide against his back. His eyes jump from his knees to a faded, yellow print of a Picasso painting on the wall to the gym logo on the front of the man’s shirt…to the gun. His breath hitches as the man perches, half-standing, on a small desk in the center of the room. With his weapon pointed at Tim, the thug uses his free hand to push through the agent’s possessions on the desktop.  
  
“So why are you here?” he asks casually.  
  
“Lunch,” Tim explains, continuing when the man holds up the badge. “Federal agents eat too. I happen to like tacos.”  
  
Snorting, the thug starts to dig through Tim’s wallet. The little cash inside slides into his pocket.  
  
“So you’re just here for lunch?”  
  
“Yeah, I was out on an interview, got hungry and decided to pick up lunch before I head back to the office. The person I talked to said that this place was great.”  
  
When the man’s round face turns thoughtful as he rechecks the objects on the table, Tim can’t believe he managed to remember rule seven :  always be specific when you lie. With a little luck and Gibbs’ teachings, he might just be back at NCIS before anyone even knows that he slipped out.  
  
The door flies open, resounding with a dull thud.  
  
Carreras storms into the room, his expression murderous. Grimacing, Tim sags against the wall.  
  
 _I’m so dead._  
  
“Who the hell is he, Hector? A cop?”  
  
“Nah, a fed.”  
  
“If I get one more of these G-damned FBI agents - ”  
  
“Actually, this guy’s from NCIS,” Hector announces, holding out Tim’s badge.  
  
“NCIS? What the hell is that?”  
  
Carreras rips the badge from Hector’s hands, confusion settling on his sharp features as he studies it. Staring intently at his knees, Tim decides now isn’t the time to ask why no one has ever heard of them.  
  
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Hector supplies.  
  
Carreras laughs heartily, shaking his head. “I guess the FBI had to find some no-name agency to do their bitch work.”  
  
“I’m just here for lunch,” Tim speaks up.  
  
“If that’s true, then you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hector, get rid of him and make sure no one finds the body.”  
  
When Carreras turns to leave, Tim presses his lips together, eyes finding his Sig on the table. Two armed men separate him from safety. He debates about how to get to his gun, not quite realizing that it would be a suicide mission.  
  
Before he can even think about moving, the door opens to frame a familiar face. With the bruises on his cheeks and unkempt hair, Tony is barely recognizable.  
  
“You know, Rico, you really shoulda tried the - ” Tony stops short when he notices Tim in the corner. “What’s this all about? You guys havin’ a party and forget to invite me? That’s so not cool.”  
  
“This business doesn’t concern you. Get out.”  
  
Tony slips into the room anyway, pointing emphatically at Tim. “That a cop? He’s got one of those faces. If he is one, then it is my business. What the hell’s he doin’ here? You said no cops, Rico.”  
  
“And there aren’t any,” Carreras growls.  
  
“That’s because he’s a fed,” Hector corrects.  
  
“Because a freaking fed is so much better. What the hell goes through your head man?” Tony asks.  
  
“Enough.” Carreras gives a lengthy pause that allows Tony to steal a glance at Tim’s terrified face. “Hector was just about to get rid of him. Tony, you’ll go by later to check the body. Make sure it’s done.” When Tony shakes his head, Carreras turns, eyes narrowed. “You want to join him?”  
  
“Not really.” Tony smirks, slowly moving between Carreras and Tim. “I just think you might want to wait a little bit before you dump him. If he turns up dead right away, these guys’ll come knockin’ on your door. Only way to make sure that no one finds the body is to keep it for a while. Shouldn’t we find out what his agency knows before you waste him?”  
  
As Carreras’ brow furrows in thought, Tim hugs his knees to his chest.  
  
“Bring him,” he finally orders.  
  
“Uh, what?” Hector asks, studying the way Tim’s knife glints under the fluorescent lights.  
  
“Get him in the car,” Carreras hisses dangerously on his way out.  
  
Tony looks back at the junior agent, disappointment on his face, and turns his attention back to Hector before Tim can mouth his apology. Tim’s muscles tense, readying to follow Tony’s lead.  
  
“He alone?” Tony asks.  
  
“Yeah, said he came for lunch. Didn’t have no keys and no phone,” Hector replies, pocketing Tim’s knife as he picks up the handcuffs.  
  
Over Hector’s shoulder, Tim watches Tony shoot him an angry look. Even though he waits for the order to fight, he knows it isn’t coming. If Tony’s cover is blown, they’re both as good as dead. With a broken sigh, Tim climbs onto his shaking legs. His gaze drops to the floor as he lets Hector secure his hands behind his back. A rough shove hurdles him back into the kitchen. While he tries to regain his footing, another push propels him through the rear door and into the alley.  
  
Tim squints against the bright afternoon sun, unable to see the cross street around the dumpster and black Chevrolet Tahoe. Hector’s tight grip on his shoulder forces Tim into the backseat of the SUV. He lands face first on the cool leather seat, not getting a chance to fight back before Hector pulls a rough piece of fabric over his eyes. Rolled onto the floor, he lets out a yelp when his face is ground against the scratchy carpet.  
  
When the door slams against his legs, Tim can hardly believe they left him alone.  
  
Using his chest for leverage, he struggles his way back to the seat. Just as he reaches the door, it opens and someone shoves him aside. He backpedals to the opposite side but someone else lands next to him, pinning him in the middle seat. When the person’s leg begins to bounce at the sound of the engine turning over, Tim figures that it has to be Tony.  
  
 _If he’s nervous, this has to be bad. Really, really bad._  
  
The way the car rocks over every pothole on its way out of the alley and jolts over the curb as it enters the main road lurches Tim’s stomach. Trying to keep his panic in check, he starts to count the turns and the seconds between. Two rights, four lefts and four hundred forty-six seconds later, Carreras growls something in Spanish that makes Tony’s leg jump quicker.  
  
Tim mistakes a right for a left.  
  
“Shut him up before I do,” Carreras warns.  
  
Tim hadn’t even noticed that his nervous inhalations have morphed into hyperventilations.  
  
“Come on, my little friend, don’t be afraid,” Tony says quietly, tapping Tim’s leg.  
  
 _Leave it to Tony to slip me a message in a film quote._  
  
“What’s that?” Carreras asks.  
  
“Just tryin’ to get him quiet. Figured punchin’ him might make it worse.”  
  
Tim sucks in a lungful of air, holding it as he wills the terror to pass. When Tony’s leg bumps his again, Tim releases the breath, feeling his pulse slow slightly. Inhaling again, Tim resumes his count even though he has no idea where they might be….nor where they’re going.  
  
Yet, the numbers coursing through his brain bring him comfort.  
  
Twelve more rights, four lefts and just over eight hundred seconds later, the SUV slides to a halt after a ride that rattled Tim’s bones. When the door to his left open, the chilly air creeping into the car cools Tim’s scorching skin and whisks Tony away. Before he has a chance to move, Hector’s strong hands yank Tim from the backseat. While he struggles to establish his balance, his dress shoes grind over the loose rocks on the asphalt. Forced forward, he nearly trips over a raised piece of ground, the grip on his arm the only support to keep him upright. Musty air hits his face, leaving a foul taste in his mouth, and he figures he must be inside a building. Somewhere nearby, he can hear the drone of a television and Carreras’ fleeting orders barked in Spanish as the dealer rushes away.  
  
When another heavy set of hands clamp on his other arm, Tim winces. More dragged than led across the uneven floor, he continues counting, only now it’s the steps that he takes. It barely helps to suppress his panic.  
  
Seventy eight steps later, his course veers left. Six more strides carry him to his final destination and a sudden shove sends him flailing backwards.  
  
Tim lets out a yell as he lands in a chair.  
  
Somewhere by his feet, he hears a snicker. He feels something snake around his ankles, binding them together. Once the knot is tight enough, the men leave, door slamming on the way out. Certain that he is indeed alone, Tim tries to release the handcuffs.  
  
All the while, he fights the despair that rises in his throat.  
  
 _Tony has to have a plan._


	19. Chapter 19

**2:12pm – Somewhere near the Navy Yard – Washington, DC –**  
  
Sighing quietly, Tim hangs his head to his chest when he finally gives up his fight to get out of the handcuffs. He only managed to rub his wrists raw, leaving the skin sore and burning. Shifting higher in the chair, he grimaces as the metal drags across his chaffed flesh. He presses his lips together, touching his left hand to his right.  
  
Despite knowing that snapping the bone that connects his thumb to his wrist would make his hand small enough to fit through the cuff, the very thought of going that far makes him sick.  
  
He lets out another sigh, hopelessness washing over him again.  
  
Deeply involved in his pity party, Tim hears the door scrape over the cement floor and the soft footfalls that follow. His muscles tense as terror burns through him.  
  
 _They’re coming for me._  
  
Swallowing hard, he lifts his chin to peer through a small gap between the blindfold and his nose. When he sees a figure dart towards him, Tim ducks back in his chair. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He inhales sharply, ready to call for help, but the intruder clamps a hand over his mouth. The blindfold disappears from his face, allowing the harsh fluorescent lights to attack his retinas.  
  
When his eyes adjust, Tim sees Tony crouched in front of him.  
  
“Tonnnfff!” he yelps, the hand muffling the name into a random collection of syllables.  
  
Tony smiles tightly, holding a finger to his lips. After Tim nods, the hand disappears.  
  
“You okay, McGee?”  
  
“Yeah, all things considered. Can you get me out of here? It’s -” Tim loses his voice when anger sweeps the concern from Tony’s features.  
  
“Christ, what the hell were you thinking? You almost got yourself killed!”  
  
“I needed to talk to you.”  
  
“You needed to talk? That’s it? You showed up at Carreras’ place with no back-up and no phone, just to talk? Why the hell didn’t you send word through Schaller?” Tony asks, sounding surprisingly harsh.  
  
“Well, it was important and - "  
  
A loud thump in the hallway propels Tony towards Tim. He drops to his knees, eyes darting between the door and the junior agent.  
  
“McGee, why the hell are you here?”  
  
Tim's pulse starts racing when he notices the first traces of fear he’s ever seen on Tony’s face.  
  
“I’m here about Pedro Morales,” he whispers, and confusion tightens Tony’s already tense features.  
  
“Who?”  
  
Another thud in the hallway makes Tony glance over his shoulder.  
  
“One of Carreras’ associates, found murdered on Wednesday,” Tim whispers, speaking so fast the words blur together. “When I hacked into the FBI database, I found a forensic report on the murder in the undercover file. Your prints are on the gun, your blood type’s at the scene, there’s…there’s other evidence. Colvin wants you brought in for questioning.”  
  
“Probie, you don’t think that I killed that guy, do you?”  
  
“Of course not. I came to warn you.”  
  
“Alone?”  
  
“I didn’t want anyone to follow me because I thought the FBI would arrest you. So I came…by myself. But look, Tony, you’ve got to get me out of here.” When Tony presses his lips together, dropping his gaze to the floor, Tim’s gut clenches. “Tony? Please...”  
  
“I can’t right now. It’ll blow my cover, the whole operation.” Before Tim can protest further, Tony shakes his head. “There are eight girls down the hall and G-d knows how many there are somewhere else. If I get you out, Carreras’ll be suspicious and he might kill them. We just need to wait until I can call Gibbs.”  
  
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway, and Tony turns to stare at the door. When he looks backs, he appears resolute, but Tim can still see the fear in his eyes. The last traces of saliva wick their way out of Tim’s mouth, leaving sandpaper in its wake.  
  
“Do you trust me?” Tony whispers.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Tony gives a quick head-bob, clenching his jaw as the footsteps grow closer. Merely seconds later, the blindfold is back over Tim’s eyes. The squeeze on his shoulder is so tight that it hurts and he feels Tony’s hot breath hit his cheek.  
  
“I’ll get you out of this. Remember that I’ve got your six.”  
  
Tim nods as he listens to Tony head to the other side of the room. One of the pieces of furniture, presumably the sofa, scratches across the floor right before a body hits the cushions. When the door opens, Tim hears three distinct sets of footsteps enter.  
  
“Tony? What the hell are you doing in here?” Carreras growls.  
  
“Tryin’ to take a freakin’ nap. Came in here since the guys are watchin’ the game, but that dude’s drivin’ me nuts. All that breathin’, might as well be havin’ a baby,” Tony mutters, thudding what sounds like a pillow against the sofa.  
  
When the bonds are cut from Tim’s ankles a few seconds later, he figures there must’ve been an unspoken order. Even though Tony told him to stay out of trouble, Tim lashes out indiscriminately, feeling satisfied by the rush of an exhalation when his foot connects with something solid. The triumph is short lived because a fist slams into his stomach, pulling the air from his lungs.  
  
His knees buckle, and it takes another set of strong hands to keep him upright.  
  
“Where do you want him?” the voice Tim thinks to be Hector’s asks.  
  
“Somewhere you can keep an eye on him,” Carreras growls.  
  
The hands force Tim forward, and he starts his count all over again. Just as he hits eighty-six, he ends up face-flat against a freezing wall. The rough cinderblocks scratch against his cheeks, and he pushes back against the arm holding him. One of the men lets out a nasty laugh.  
  
“You think this is okay? Carreras said we should watch him,” Hector says.  
  
“Who cares, man, the game’s on. Not like he’s goin’ anywhere,” a new voice replies.  
  
Hauled off the wall, Tim slips slightly. One of the men rips off the blindfold, then shoves him forward. His foot catches on something and he crashes to the floor. When the impact jolts his right shoulder, Tim can’t hold back a yell. The door slams, the lock clicking in place as he rolls to his knees, slowly glancing around the room. There are several battery operated lanterns scattered about, their low glows stretching across the piles of fabric that lie on the cement. One of them rests on its side, illuminating a patch of the high celling. The setup perplexes him.  
  
Something in the darkness moves. Fear clenches his chest as Tim backpedals along the rough ground into a corner. His back slams into the freezing concrete.  
  
Just when he thinks his mind might play tricks, the shadows shift again.  
  
“Hello? Anybody there?”  
  
A hunched form emerges from the far side of the room, carefully making its way to him. When it crouches in front of him, Tim shrinks away. The figure pushes its matted blonde hair behind its ears so the lamplight can trespass onto a face, marred by its own shadows. When the head tilts to allow the light to encroach further onto its features, Tim finds himself staring at a teenaged girl.  
  
The roundness of the cheeks and smoothness of the skin sends a shiver racing down his spine.  
  
 _She can’t be older than the girl in the morgue._  
  
Several other girls emerge from the opposite side of the room. Tim breathes slowly, amazed by what the low lantern light reveals. There’s a stack of empty pizza boxes next to a pile of clothes against the wall, and sleeping bags are neatly arranged in almost individual spaces.  
  
 _How do they live like this?_  
  
His gaze flicks over the dejected faces of the other occupants before landing on the girl in front of him. Her hand lifts to touch the delicate cross that hangs from her neck. Tim flinches at the sight of the hollows around her collar bones.  
  
“What’s your name?” he asks, surprised when her brow furrows.  
  
She murmurs something incoherent that draws the other girls closer. As they surround him, forming a tight semi-circle, Tim counts eight in total. An anxious cacophony suddenly erupts as they all begin speaking to each other, possibly even to him. He rests his head against the damp cinderblocks behind him, not understanding a word and not knowing how to help. The girl in front of him makes an angry, guttural speech that quiets everyone.  
  
Her gaze returns to his face, tone softening as she speaks, almost like she asks a question.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he says, feeling even more helpless. “Do any of you speak English?”  
  
Her brow knits again before she shakes her head. When he stares at the blank eyes around him, Tim realizes that she seems to be speaking for the group.  
  
 _Of course, none of them speak English._  
  
“I’m McGee,” he says, wondering why he said his last name first. “Tim.”  
  
“Maaggee Teem?” she repeats, her accent making him chuckle.  
  
“Close enough, I guess. I’m a federal agent.” When she shrugs, he sighs. “Federal agent? Cop? Police?”  
  
“Coup? Pooleece?”  
  
A brunette on the outskirts of the group jabbers excitedly, making the blonde girl nod.  
  
“Maaggee.” She points a finger to his chest before her own. “Ksenia.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Ksenia. Guess I’m here to help you all.”  
  
When he struggles to his feet, the brunette lets out a scream and scurries back to the farthest corner of the room. A few others dart after her. Perplexed, Tim drops to the floor.  Ksenia begins talking animatedly, as though she recounts a story. She smiles sheepishly when she glances back to Tim’s confused face. She stops talking and they listen to the brunette’s quiet wails and the comforting murmurs of the group. Just when he can’t bear the tortured noise any longer, Ksenia leaps off the floor. She stops by the door, turning back to Tim with her young features set in determination. As she gestures, her utterances are incensed.  
  
“I know, I know. We need to get out.”  
  
Tim climbs to his feet again, nearly tripping over one of the sleeping bags on his way to the door. One of the girls hops out from the group, steadying him. Ksenia’s lips pull into a tight line as she studies his stance. Barely seconds later, her icy fingers are on his arms, inspecting the cuffs.  
  
An active discussion takes place between them and he hears one of the girls open a sleeping bag.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Ksenia’s hand appears by his side, displaying a bobby pin.  
  
“You know that never works, right?”  
  
He feels her manipulating the cuffs behind him. It takes her several tries but they finally loosen, giving way so he can rub the raw skin on his wrists. He is about to ask where she learned that trick when he notices the dark bruises around Ksenia’s own wrists.  
  
“Thank you,” he says instead.  
  
Her tight smile tells him that there’s still work to be done. While the girl with the sleeping bag reclaims her possession, he takes in the anxious faces of the others around them and the echoing moans of those in the shadows. Before he can give them a pep talk, Ksenia grabs his arm, dragging him to the solid metal door. As he stares at the two dead bolts and the absent hinges, a sense of dread burns through him. She digs her fingernails into his forearm, jerking her head anxiously towards it.  
  
He swallows hard, glancing at Ksenia’s thin face then back to the girls that hide behind them.  
  
 _I don’t even know where to start._


	20. Chapter 20

**3:41pm – Forensics Lab- NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
Clutching his nearly empty coffee cup, Gibbs watches some sort of scan stream across the monitor on the lab bench. As the red and blue pixels blend together into a torrent of purple, his gaze drifts to the cables that attach Tim’s desktop to Abby’s computer. Gibbs shakes his head, certain that his junior agent wouldn’t vanish without a good reason…but he still wonders why he wasn’t alerted.  
  
Gibbs emits a low growl, starting a list of extra work that’ll keep Tim occupied when he turns up again. Just as he plans to make him clean autopsy with his toothbrush, he finds Fornell staring at him intently. When their eyes meet, Gibbs offers the last of his coffee. After a polite headshake from his friend, he shrugs and empties the cup, hoping it will quell the burning in his stomach.  
  
 _I need Abby to find out what would make McGee leave without telling me._  
  
When a pulsating green replaces the purple on the monitor, Gibbs glances around the corner of the lab shelves. Hunched over her desk in the inner office, Abby attempts to reconstruct Tim’s phone…that he hurled against the wall earlier. Her shoulders rise as she lets out a shaky breath.  
  
“Abs?”  
  
“Oh my way, Gibbs,” she calls, popping out of her office to the lab bench.  
  
In the green screen, he can see her distorted reflection as she clicks through the options. When her brow furrows, Fornell shoots him a concerned glance. Holding up a finger, Gibbs slides next to her. Her eyes meet his.  
  
“Whaddya got, Abs?”  
“A whole lot of nothing, Gibbs,” she murmurs grimly. “I put the phone back together. The only calls on it are from you and Ziva. Nothing after 2AM this morning…speaking of which, why were you bothering McGee in the middle of the night anyway?”  
  
While she waits for a reply, an uneasy silence falls over them. His gaze jumps from her to the monitor and back again until he realizes that she won’t move on without an explanation. With an exasperated eye roll, he crushes his coffee cup before cocking his head at her. Fornell lets out something that resembles a laugh.  
  
“Just felt like talking.”  
  
“Yeah, I could see that,” she says, gesturing to the desktop. “I’m still trying to get into his computer. It’s a lot harder than I thought. While you might not believe it, McGee’s actually pretty paranoid about his work. It’s like trying to break into the CIA or the FBI.”  
  
“You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” Gibbs questions.  
  
Her sly grin vanishes when she notices Fornell, peering around Gibbs’ back.  
  
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about…but if there are so many security protocols on a desktop in a federal agency surrounded by agents, can you imagine what’s on McGee’s personal one?”  
  
While her eyes light up at the thought and she grins wistfully, Gibbs shrugs.  
  
Fornell exhales loudly, finally joining them at the bench.  
  
“Security levels?” he asks.  
  
“Oh yeah,” Abby laughs. “The main operating system’s password protected, but that was easy to get into. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that his password is…well, nevermind, he’d kill me if I let it slip. The real problem is that the hard drive’s encrypted so I need to find the key to de –“  
  
“Abs?” Gibbs interjects.  
  
“ – crypt it. But it looks like he wiped his browsing history which makes it more – “  
  
“Abs?”  
  
“- difficult to reconstruct. Then I need to figure out – “  
  
“Abby, pretend that I know nothing about computers,” Fornell interrupts, features pinched in confusion.  
  
“That’s not hard,” Gibbs whispers.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
The two share a narrowed eye stare while Abby glances between them. Framing her monitor with her hands, she grins awkwardly until Fornell turns to her first. Gibbs cracks a wry smile and shakes his head, finally paying attention.  
  
“Since McGee seems like he’s worried about someone breaking into his computer, he set up a bunch of parameters that make it harder to access. He set the hard drive to save itself in a different language that I don’t have a key for yet and he erased his web history so I don’t know what he saw. I need to rebuild the search and see if he saved anything to his memory.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
Her shoulders hitch as she pulls in a deep breath. When she pushes it through her teeth, Gibbs recognizes the action that he bears witness to nearly every case.  
  
 _That means she’ll say ‘this might take a while.’_  
  
“This might take a while,” Abby admits, lip jutting out into a small frown. While she types aggressively at the keyboard, Fornell checks his watch, raising his eyebrows. Another scan appears, and the stream of reds and blues restarts. Gibbs holds his mangled coffee cup to his lips, just in case there’s a few errant drops still left behind.  
  
“I think you’re out, Jethro,” Fornell assesses.  
  
Smiling tightly, Gibbs hurls the empty container into the trash. Abby suddenly leans backward, pressing her body deeply into his. When he wraps his arm around her shoulders, Fornell nods, disappearing into the inner office. Finally alone, Abby’s attempts to stay strong crumble as she glances up at Gibbs with tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.  
  
“I know I promised that I wouldn’t ask again, but do you think he’s okay?”  
  
“He’s fine, Abs. Nothing says anything different.”  
  
“What about Tony?”  
  
“DiNozzo’s fine too.”  
  
“Will you – “  
  
“Find him so you can give him a head-slap? Promise.”  
  
The scent of strawberries tickles his nose as he kisses her hair. While they stand in silence, he can barely feel the tiny quakes that shake her body. When a wet patch forms on his shoulder, he pulls her tighter, allowing the chore list for Tim’s penance to lengthen.  
  
Fornell re-appears at the corner of the lab bench. Abby stiffens, rubbing her eyes as she ducks away from Gibbs.  
  
“Uh, um…sorry to interrupt, but Abby, there’s something on your computer. Might be an e-mail?” Fornell says quietly, pointing to the office.  
Although she smiles politely, the mascara trails down her face betray her. Gibbs silently follows the pair into the office, watching Abby fall into her desk chair. When she finds the e-mail alert on her monitor, she bites her lip, clicking the mouse several times. Gibbs' gut clenches unexpectedly as her eyes dart across the screen, the little color visible on her cheeks draining away.  
  
“It’s from McGee,” she relays, wide eyes meeting Gibbs’. “It says that the FBI has Tony on a suspect list for a murder. He wanted to talk to you about Tony, but had to get out before the dragon lady stopped him. Something’s happened to him.”  
  
“Whaddya mean ‘something’s happened to him?'” Gibbs asks, stepping closer to her.  
  
“McGee set up a time-delay on the e-mail. If he doesn’t stop it, it will send itself at a preset time. Since we got it, something happened. Something bad.” She swallows hard, narrowing her eyes at Fornell. “What’s this about the FBI suspecting Tony of murder?”  
  
Fornell holds out his hands and shakes his head. “Not all of us think so.”  
  
“Abs, let’s find them first. We can figure this mess out later,” Gibbs suggests, sighing with relief when her glare softens.  
  
When a lull in the ever-present music leaves a momentary silence, Gibbs can actually hear himself think. As soon as it comes, the quiet is replaced with a new song, its thrashing beat pulsating through the lab. Abby’s head rocks in time with the music, her fingers slamming against the keyboard. Peering over her shoulder, Gibbs watches her run a trace on a cell phone. Since he already destroyed Tim’s, he figures it must be Tony’s number. A map of the tri-county area appears on the screen, narrowing onto the Northwest quadrant of Washington. After it triangulates to the Columbia Heights neighborhood, an address pops up on the screen.  
  
“Found ‘em, Gibbs. McGee sent me Tony’s undercover cell phone number. Must’ve tracked it to this restaurant in Columbia Heights,” she grins, scrawling the address on a scrap of paper. “Looks like they’re still there.”  
  
“Good work, Abs. Call me if they move,” Gibbs says, pulling out his cell to contact Ziva.  
  
Gibbs rushes into the hallway, seeing Abby grab Fornell’s arm on their way out. While he listens to the phone ring, Gibbs watches the conversation between his friends. Based on the serious look on Fornell’s face and the way Abby’s knuckles turn white as she grips his shirt, it can’t be good.  
  
Just as Gibbs is about to double-back to join them, a husky voice sounds on the line.  
  
 _“Yes, Gibbs?”_  
  
“Ziva, grab Suzuki and meet me in the garage in five.” He doesn’t need any confirmation other than the click on the other end. With a jerk of his head, Gibbs tells Fornell they need to leave. Neither of them speak until they’re halfway to the elevator. “What’d she say?’  
  
Fornell presses his lips together.  
  
“She told me that if I could get her the evidence in Morales’ murder, she’ll prove that I’m right.”  
  
\--  
  
 **3:53pm – Enrico Carreras’ Private Office, Warehouse - Somewhere Near the Navy Yard ,Washington, DC -**  
  
Even though Tony lies on the lumpy couch with his eyes closed tightly, sleep’s the last thing on his mind. Despite his best efforts to think about something else, his thoughts continually whirl back to the moment when he found Tim in the taqueria.  
  
The terrified look in the younger man’s eyes is still emblazoned on his brain.  
  
His breath hitches, mind whirring at all the other ways the situation could’ve played out. While Carreras would’ve never agreed to release his partner, Tony could have tried something else…anything else. He could’ve pulled his gun, rushed Tim to safety and tried to recover the mission later. Even though he can’t think of an explanation now, it doesn’t mean that there couldn’t be one.  
  
He presses his lips together, wondering why he didn’t just wait until Hector took Tim to the wharf. One phone call to Gibbs at the taqueria and he would be in the NCIS interrogation room now. Tony would still be on the mission while Tim and Gibbs would be leaning on Hector to get intel about Carreras’ operation.  
  
Of all the choices that he could’ve made, why did he convince Carreras to take his partner hostage?  
  
It made sense at the time….at least, Tony thinks it did. He just needed to maintain the mission’s status quo as well as keep Tim alive long enough to contact Gibbs. His other options would’ve left Carreras suspicious and threatened Tim.  
  
He just needs to keep everything moving until he finds out where Carreras keeps the other girls.  
  
Listening to the quiet rustling of papers on the opposite side of the room, Tony grimaces inwardly. Based on the sounds, Carreras is still at his desk, probably working on something for his evil empire. Biting the inside of his cheek, Tony hopes that the dealer will leave soon so he can search the office for the cartel’s cache of burner phones. As soon as he finds one, he can call Gibbs.  
  
All he needs -  
  
“I know you’re not asleep,” Carreras says suddenly, making Tony flinch.  
  
“Yeah, just can’t seem to get comfortable. There’s a freakin’ spring in my back,” Tony replies, hauling himself up onto the arm of the couch.  
  
Deeply invested in the pages on the desk, Carreras says, “Well, I have been meaning to get a new one.”  
  
Tony picks a spot of exposed padding. “Not a bad idea.”  
  
After several uncomfortable moments, he hops to his feet, figuring he can double back for a phone later. By the time he hits the door, his skin crawl. After all his years on Gibbs’ team, he’s used to the feeling of someone watching. When he glances over his shoulder, he meets Carreras’ gaze.  
  
“Do we have a problem, Tony?”  
  
“Uh, no, we’re cool. Why?”  
  
“You’ve been worked up since we picked up that fed. Remember that you convinced me to bring him back here. Death would’ve been easy on him, but you never did like to keep things clean,” Carreras says, crumpling a piece of paper before he drops it into a waste bin.  
  
Tony swallows hard, shaking his head.  
  
“It’s not about the fed. It’s the girls. Harder to deal with than I thought. Real different than those guys in Baltimore. It’s one thing when some guys are rippin’ you off, but these girls? They’re just kids.”  
  
Carreras nods solemnly, leaning back in his chair.  Pressing his lips together, Tony shifts his weight deliberately as Carreras opens one of the desk drawers.  
  
His heart drops when a gun appears, the polished metal glinting under the fluorescenct lights. It only takes the flick of his wrist to point the barrel at Tony.  
  
“You know, Tony, I think it’s time for you to get the fuck over it.”


	21. Chapter 21

**4:22pm – Somewhere Near the Navy Yard – Washington, DC –**  
  
Kneeling by the limited resources of the holding room, Tim carefully examines the items at his disposal : eight sleeping bags, five empty pizza boxes, six battery operated lanterns and his trench coat. He had a few slices of stale pizza, but he isn’t sure that they would’ve been much help anyway. Under the watchful stares of four girls, he runs his hand over his chin, trying to make a weapon out of pliable cardboard and fabric.  
  
While he shakes his head at their predicament, Ksenia abandons her anxious vigil by the door, pushing her way through the group to Tim’s side. She drops into a crouch, taking his arm as she studies the objects. Her icy grip leaves after a few seconds. She pulls his coat towards her, placing the three closest lanterns inside. When she folds the edges up, the cloth swallows the light, plunging the room deeper into darkness.  
  
Their tense eyes meet and she allows him to take the newly formed weapon from her hands. The girls slide out of his way so he can take a few practice swings. Even though it’s bulky and awkward, Tim figures it’s their best chance at freedom if Carreras’ men return. When he places his trench on the ground, one of the lanterns rolls loose, its dull glow skittering over the rough concrete. Tim inhales slowly, a failed attempt to calm his racing heart.  
  
 _I really hope Tony comes first._  
  
Ignoring the tremble in his fingers, Tim shoves the lantern back into his coat. Weapon in hand, he joins Ksenia by the door. With her ear pressed deeply against it, her lips are in a tight line.  
  
“When the door opens,” he says, acting out the words. “I fight. You guys run.”  
  
Her brow furrows for several long moments, then she nods grimly. When she relays something to the girls in their native tongue, Tim hopes that nothing’s lost in translation. A collective head bob from the seven others indicate some sort of understanding.  
  
“Get out and find Gibbs,” he continues, addressing the group.  
  
“Geebbs?” Ksenia repeats, furrow deepening on her brow.  
  
“Out.” Tim gestures to the door and she nods. “Find a cop, then find Gibbs. He’ll help you.”  
  
Confusion still evident on her face, she rambles uncertainly to the other girls. It takes a few tries before they begin to test their pronunciation of his boss’ name. While none of them can say it correctly, Tim figures they’re close enough to be understood.  
  
 _I really hope someone on Metro speaks Russian._  
  
The chorus of ‘Geebbs’ continues for several moments until Ksenia murmurs something quietly. When the room plummets into a tense silence, she leans her ear to the door; the terrified look in her eyes tells Tim that someone’s coming. He herds her to the back of the room with the rest of the girls. His gut churns as he hoists the lantern-laden coat over his shoulder.  
  
When the locks disengage, the click of each deadbolt resounding through the room, Tim slides just out of view.  
  
If his plan fails...  
  
The door opens, allowing a triangle of bright light to trespass into the prison. Two shadows appear, looking like faceless monsters.  
  
“ – bad idea, Hector.”  
  
One of the girls lets out a strangled cry.  
  
“Come on, Marino, we need somethin’ to do. Carreras took my phone and everything on TV sucks ass. What else we supposed to do, man? We ain’t allowed to go out neither. I’m getting’ bored, ain’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” the other man admits, sounding closer.  
  
Tim licks the perspiration from his upper lip, muscles tensing to launch his strike.  
  
“Where’s that fed?”  
  
Right on cue, Tim swings his jacket at the tall, stocky Hispanic man heading past his hiding spot. When it slams into his face, Marino topples to the ground. As the man from the taqueria appears in the same place, Tim hits Hector squarely in the chest. Retaliating, Hector body-slams the agent and sends him flailing backwards. Stumbling as he tries to regain his footing, Tim swings his weapon at random.  
  
Noticing the girls haven’t moved from their position by the back wall, he points towards the door.  
  
“Run!”  
  
It takes Ksenia’s scream, an almost feral shriek, to spur them forward. When Tim kicks Marino squarely in the chest, the thug catches his foot, twisting him off balance. Only a second later, Tim finds himself staring at the stars that swarm on the ceiling. He lunges at Marino’s legs, dragging him down as he scrambles for the door. A hand around his ankle yanks him backwards, and Marino grabs Tim’s right arm, twisting it roughly into the middle of his back.  
  
When he hears the excited chatter from the girls, Tim figures that they didn’t make it.  
  
“There’s only five here. Where’s the other three?” Hector asks.  
  
Marino swallows audibly. “Shit, Carreras is gonna kill us.”  
  
“Not if we stop them before he finds out!”  
  
When Marino releases his hold, Tim rolls to land another strike. He doesn’t see the kick coming, but feels the pop that burns like fire in his right shoulder. By the time he blinks away the blackness, the door slams, the locks clicking into place. He inhales deliberately, forcing himself to his knees and curls his right arm protectively to his chest. Pressing his lips together, he stares helplessly at the crestfallen faces of the five girls who weren’t lucky enough to escape.  
  
Ksenia isn’t one of them.  
  
\--  
  
 **4:57pm –Near Buzzard Point – Southwest, Washington, DC –**  
  
Metro Patrol Officer Hailey Johnson leans back against the passenger seat, gazing out the cruiser window at the abandoned industrial buildings that line the road. Her partner, Derek Bowser, keeps his eyes steady ahead. While their presence in this community is a mere formality, Hailey still watches the sidewalk for any activity like they’re supposed to…even if Derek doesn’t. Only the quiet crackle of their radio occasionally breaks the silence.  
  
The minutes tick as slowly as the miles climb on the odometer.  
  
“You see something?” Derek asks, speaking for the first time since lunch.  
  
“Not yet.” She makes a face at the deserted sidewalk. “Any plans for the weekend?”  
  
When he doesn’t respond, she shakes her head. Not one for idle conversation (or any for that matter), Derek limits their interactions to work only. She remembers how much she used to enjoy this job, back on the beat when she was a part of the community. When she got the promotion to the patrol car, she’d been excited at the new possibilities. Sometimes, she can hardly believe that Derek’s been sucking the joy out of her workday for only a few months now.  
  
Hailey glances over at him, letting her eyes linger on his serious features. When he doesn’t even look at her, she turns back to the world outside. The familiar, austere buildings of the Southwest’s old manufacturing district blend together into a bland mélange of forgotten industry.  
  
As Derek hangs a left towards Buzzard Point, the computer screen on the cruiser’s dashboard flashes. Hailey quickly reads the order : a BOLO for a federal agent beside a picture of a young, round-faced man.  
  
“What’d we get?” he asks.  
  
“Just that we need to keep our eyes peeled for a fed,” she replies, still studying the image.  
  
“What’d he do?”  
  
“It doesn’t say.”  
  
His curt nod ends the conversation as the cruiser stops at a red light at an empty intersection. Derek lets out an irritated exhale, and Hailey looks back out her window, spotting a thin girl with matted blonde hair heading up the street. The girl waves frantically them as the light turns green. He hits the gas.  
  
“Derek!”  
  
“What?” He glances through her window just as the girl’s form disappears behind a building.  
  
“Someone’s back there.”  
  
Derek’s face scrunches, and he pulls the cruiser into a tight U-turn.  Before they even hit the cross street, Hailey spots the girl’s figure leaned against the brick exterior.  
  
“Where the hell did she come from?” Derek mutters, watching as Hailey rolls down her window.  
  
“You okay, honey?” she calls.  
  
As the girl rushes to the cruiser, Hailey’s surprised that she wears only a breezy sundress to combat the unseasonably cool fall day. She settles by the car window, her deep set eyes darting between the police officers. While she appeared thin from afar, up close the girl looks down right malnourished.  
  
“Are you okay?” Hailey repeats.  
  
The girl stares back blankly.  
  
“Yeah, is everything alright?” Derek asks, his voice booming.  
  
When the girl readies to bolt, Hailey grabsher thin arm through the car window. She winces at the feeling of the girl’s bone underneath her frozen skin.  
  
“Give us a minute, Derek?” He begins to protest, but she points out of the car. “Give us a minute or I’ll tell the brass you let your girlfriend drive the cruiser.”  
  
He shoots her a vicious glare before sliding out. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he storms across the street.  
  
Once she feels the girl relax under her grip, Hailey opens the door, moving to the driver’s side to make space. As the girl climbs in, Hailey shrugs off her uniform jacket.  
  
When the girl wraps it tightly around her body, her lips pull into a thankful smile.  
  
“Are you okay?” There’s another blank look on the girl’s face. “Do you speak English?”  
  
When the girl doesn’t reply, Hailey sighs quietly, watching her stare at the buttons and controls on the dashboard. Before Hailey can think of what to try next, the girl grabs the computer screen. Her finger touches the picture of the kind-eyed federal agent.  
  
“Maggeee Teem,” she sighs before launching into an incomprehensible tirade.  
  
Hailey checks the name on the BOLO : Timothy McGee.  
  
“You’ve seen him?”  
  
“Maggeee Teem,” the girl repeats, shivering, adding, “Geeeebbbs.”  
  
Realizing she won’t get anything else from the girl, Hailey rolls down the window.  
  
“Derek! Let’s go!”  
  
She already has the car in gear by the time he hits the driver’s door.  
  
“Hailey, you’re not driving.”  
  
“Come on, Derek, in the back.” She has no intention of making the girl ride where suspects do.  
  
“Johnson!"  
  
“Get in or I really will tell the brass about Tammy and the cruiser.”  
  
He scowls, cursing under his breath, before he complies. Even though she knows she’ll hear about this later, Hailey feels slightly victorious. She flicks on the sirens. Derek’s face appears in the rearview mirror, distorted by the Plexiglas barricade.  
  
“Seriously, how do you even know about that?”  
  
“Not too hard when she keeps posting pictures on your MySpace page.”  
  
“I can’t believe –“ he starts, struggling to compose himself. “So who’s she?”  
  
“No clue, but she seems to know that fed from the BOLO.”  
  
\--  
  
 **5:19pm – Don Julio’s World Famous Tacos – Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –**  
  
Arms crossed tightly to his chest, Gibbs stands on the sidewalk out front of the taqueria. Waiting for the owner to arrive, he stares at the fluorescent yellow sign above the store. With the sunlight quickly fading, he shudders at the falling temperature in the wind that sweeps the trash over his feet. When he turns to check the empty street, he grinds his teeth.  
  
Several feet away, Fornell flinches.  
  
“Heard that, Jethro.”  
  
Gibbs shrugs distractedly, glaring back through the restaurant’s front window. Squinting against the sun, he barely discerns a few red booths and a low counter that probably separates the eating area from the kitchen. Kicking a wayward candy wrapper from his shoe, he wishes he’d ordered Ziva to pick the door’s lock when they arrived. But since the proprietor had promised to be over shortly, Gibbs sent her and Kenji to canvas the street instead.  
  
Just as he’s about to call them back, Gibbs hears the sound of labored breathing long before he sees the portly man lumbering up the street. Round face flushed with exertion, the man pauses in front of Gibbs, doubling over as he wheezes.  
  
Fornell raises his eyebrows at Gibbs.  
  
“Don Julio?” Fornell asks.  
  
“Freddie Goldstein.” The man runs his hand over his shiny head, then offers it to the agents. Neither of them shakes it. “Youse the feds?”  
  
“Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS,” he says, showing his badge. “That’s Special Agent Fornell, FBI.”  
  
“NCIS? What the hell’s that?”  
  
Gibbs chooses to ignore both the question and the snort from Fornell. While Goldstein pulls a key ring from his pocket, flipping through them until he finds the appropriate one, Fornell points to the fluorescent yellow sign over the store.  
  
“So who’s Don Julio?”  
  
“The name that sells the tacos. Freddie Goldstein can’t sell shit in this neighborhood,” he says, leading the agents into the restaurant.  
Before they’re even over the threshold, the scent of burnt meat assaults Gibbs’ nostrils. He takes in the yellowed walls, covered with flags from several Latin American countries that offset the red booths. At the end of the long wood counter, an archaic cash register has been shoved up in a corner.  
  
“You run this place?” Fornell asks.  
  
“Not really. I’m not around much,” Goldstein admits. “I actually got lost on the way here, which is why I was late. Own a couple food places in DC. This one sorta runs itself. I check in sometimes, but I really just monitor the bank account. Make sure no one’s skimmin’ money offa me.”  
  
“Okay,” Gibbs replies, surveying the interior.  
  
“You guys need me to stay? Or do you think you can just lock up when you leave?”  
  
“We’ll lock up when we’re done. Do you mind if we look around?” Gibbs offers.  
  
“Do whatever the hell you need to. Light switch is in the corner, turns ‘em all on. Jimmy the door when you leave so it’ll lock. My phone’s on. Just don’t touch the cash in the register,” Goldstein says, eyeing the agents suspiciously for a brief second before he leaves.  
  
“If only they were all this easy,” Fornell laughs, crossing the room to hit the switch.  
  
The fluorescent light buzzes on, its harshness chasing away the sun. Gibbs nods as he slips around the counter into the kitchen, making a face at the piles of dirty dishes and greasy pots strewn across the counters. When he moves deeper into the cooking area, he finds a pot full of meat on the stove, completely blackened. He presses his fingers to it.  
  
“Still warm. Must’ve left in a hurry,” he surmises.  
  
“Maybe they just like their food Cajun,” Fornell offers with a tight grin.  
  
Gibbs leads the way as they finish searching the kitchen. By the time they reach what appears to be an office, they’ve cleared a storage pantry and a walk-in freezer, both nearly empty. When they enter the stark room and he sees the desk, a familiar clench starts in Gibbs' gut.  
  
His phone blares, breaking his concentration.  
  
“Yeah, Gibbs.”  
  
 _“We have uncovered something. Where are you and Fornell?”_ Ziva’s voice answers.  
  
“Don Julio’s. Back office, front door’s open.”  
  
Not waiting for a confirmation, Gibbs slams the phone closed and slides it into his pocket. Fornell already has his gloves on to push through the pile of papers on the desk. Even though the look on his face shows there’s nothing here, he crouches to dig through the drawers anyway.  
  
Gibbs inhales deeply, shuddering at the sudden scent of garbage. Ziva is standing in the doorway, and Kenji peeks over her shoulder. Hair slicked against his head and mysterious stains coating his NCIS jacket, his features are tight in disgust.  
  
 _I don’t want to know._  
  
Kenji holds out an evidence bag that contains a cell phone, covered in the same mystery goo as him.  
  
“We found it in the dumpster out back,” Ziva reports.  
  
“She made me go in after it,” he pouts, leaving an orange smear on his cheek as he touches his face.  
  
Holding his breath to ward off the noxious smell wafting from the TAD, Gibbs pulls out his phone and dials the number for Tony’s cover. When the screen on the phone in Kenji’s hand lights up, Gibbs lets out a growl. The probationary agent takes a full step back.  
  
“Jethro, found something,” Fornell calls, popping up from behind the desk. His features are grim as he holds up a brown leather wallet. Before he even has to ask, it lands in Gibbs’ hand and he opens the worn trifold to find Tim’s driver’s license inside. He slides it into an evidence bag, almost missing the concerned glance Kenji and Ziva share.  
  
“Is it McGee’s?” she asks, frowning at Gibbs’ nod.  
  
“I’ll get our forensics guys over here,” Fornell announces, pulling his cell phone out.  
  
“Ziva, you’re with me and Fornell. Suzuki, you’ll stay here and run point with the FBI.”  
  
Not giving the stained mess of an agent a chance to protest, Gibbs rushes back into the kitchen. While he bolts out of the restaurant, he ignores everyone’s questions. It isn’t until he hits the sidewalk that he manages to breathe.  
  
Fornell grabs his arm. “We’ll find them.”  
  
“Abby get that evidence from the Morales murder yet?” Gibbs asks, changing the subject.  
  
“Yeah, shoulda been there a few hours ago. You owe Strickland a big favor for that one.”  
  
While he nods slowly, Gibbs feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he glances through the storefront at Kenji’s stricken face. Before he can double-back for a well-deserved headslap, his ringing phone distracts him. The blocked number makes him snap his fingers for Fornell’s attention.  
  
 _That better be DiNozzo or McGee._  
  
“Gibbs.”  
  
There’s an anxious exhale before a high-pitched female voice asks, “Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs?”  
  
He glowers. “Yeah.”  
  
"This is Officer Hailey Johnson. I think I might have a witness for your BOLO."


	22. Chapter 22

**6:15pm – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
As the images of fingerprints in her search flash across the computer monitor, Abby grabs a quick sip from the CafPow on the lab bench. When the uncommonly warm liquid assaults her tongue, she makes a face, figuring she needs to devise a way to cool it down. She glances to the refrigerator, deciding it’s a tad too far away. Instead, she looks to the pile of evidence from the Morales murder strewn across the table.  
  
 _I’ll get there as soon as I get a minute…_  
  
Her _Plasticized Death_ CD restarts, the thumping refrain of the introductory song booming. Grabbing the remote, she switches to something a bit mellower that doesn’t shake her test tubes too hard. When the screen flashes with a hit on the first print, she cheers...until Tony’s personnel photo appears in the corner adjacent to the partial index print.  
  
“I know that one’s Tony’s print….you already told me that earlier. You’re supposed to be figuring out who belongs to the other one. I need a match on that partial thumb print from the clip, not the one from the barrel,” she bemoans, launching another search with corrected parameters.  
  
Abby grabs Bert off his stool, pulling him into a tight hug. He farts his sympathies.  
  
Deciding the computer might need to work in peace, Abby turns to the table. Her eyes dart over the evidence bags still strewn about haphazardly from her earlier frenzy to compile the data before the FBI could turn up to reclaim their property. When she sees the log on top of the pile, she tries to figure out a way that to maintain the chain of evidence while still being secretive.  
  
Maybe she should whip up some ink that vanishes once she clears Tony’s name…  
  
Bert finds his way to the corner, overseeing her progress as she catalogues the objects in terms of their ability to convict Tony of murder.  
The Beretta 92FS with his fingerprint on the barrel is the most damning. Even though there are also unidentified partials on the grip and the clip, it still isn’t good for Tony’s print to be among them. Abby places two spent 9mm shell casings next to the weapon. Her ballistics confirms the FBI lab findings that this is the gun that killed Morales. Four strands of light brown hair plucked from the victim’s clothes are next. Devoid of any follicles, DNA comparison is impossible so the only link to Tony is the common coloration. Her last piece of evidence is Morales’ shirt, covered in type O- and A+ blood. While the victim’s type is the former, the killer shares the latter with the senior agent.  
  
 _So does 35% of the population._  
  
Abby reaches for the CafPow, absently chewing the straw as she mulls over the evidence.  
  
“I can’t believe they actually think Tony killed that guy,” she says, meeting Bert’s stare. “Come on, you can’t think that. I mean, yes, the evidence shows that he might’ve had something to do with it, but all this tells us for sure is that Tony touched that gun at some point in time. Yeah, okay, I know the blood type and the hair color match his. But it’s circumstantial at best.”  
  
Pulling a long drink, she narrows her eyes at the stuffed hippo.  
  
“I don’t know how you can agree with them, Bert. This is Tony you’re talking about. The leader of my three musketeers, special agent extraordinaire, Gibbs’ right hand man, his first mate, his side-kick, his…” Her voice trails off. “Okay, I can’t come up with another one right now, but you and I both know the FBI’s wrong about this. I bet you a CafPow that he touched someone else’s gun and that someone else killed Morales.”  
  
She squares off with the plush toy, the dull thud of her music resounding through the lab. She whacks her fist against Bert’s back, his fart barely audible.  
  
“Glad you finally see things my way.”  
  
When a loud beeping pleads for her attention, she swivels towards her computer. The fingerprint search closes out, leaving Tony’s picture fixed in the bottom corner of the screen. Abby starts to make a face until three hits pop up from the national, unsolved crime database. Biting her lower lip, she scrolls through a report from Baltimore PD involving an identified Caucasian male found in late July with twin 9mm bullets through his heart. After she quickly compares the fingerprints from the scenes, she starts to cheer wildly, pumping her hands over his head.  
  
“Told you so,” she says, sticking her tongue out at Bert.  
  
She glances through the other murders, one from Philadelphia in 2005 and another from Baltimore in January with nearly identical MO’s. Grabbing her phone, she punches in the contact number for the detective of the cases in Baltimore. Since Gibbs and Ziva need to focus all their attention to bring Tim and Tony back safe, Abby decides that she and Bert will run down this lead. Once she has the other cities’ evidence, she can confirm forensics and link the cases before her team even returns.  
  
 _Then Gibbs’ll bring me someone to match it to._  
  
While the phone on the other end rings, a new song pumps through the lab and she swings her hips. She grabs the CafPow, pulling a hot sip before she slams it in front of Bert.  
  
“You owe me a new one. Make sure it’s cold this time.”  
  
\--  
  
 **6:38pm –Somewhere Near the Navy Yard – Washington, DC –**  
  
Slowly inhaling, Tony leans back against the leather sofa in the warehouse’s main room. He fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his legs, as his fingers trace the cool stitching of the seat cushion. His attention fixates on the television for a brief second. While the men decided on a melodramatic Spanish soap opera today, he doesn’t understand how they can actually watch it. Although it doesn’t matter what’s on…as long it keeps them distracted.  
  
Pressing his lips together, he checks on the small group to ensure that they’re all sufficiently enthralled by Maribel and Luis’ love life. Tony’s eyes drop back to the cell phone that peeks out of his couch mate’s pocket. He shifts his weight towards the man, hand outstretched as he fakes a yawn. Just when he goes for the cell, the man utters a soft curse, leaning forward in his seat.  
  
Heart thudding in his chest, Tony glances over the group, surprised by the murderous stares fixed on the television. When he sees Luis and Maribel locked in a passionate embrace on screen, he rolls his eyes, finally snatching the phone. He sneaks it into his sleeve.  
  
 _I guess they don’t like her new boyfriend._  
  
“So do you guys really think Maribel will stay with Luis this time?” Tony grins, slightly unsettled when the angry glares refocus on him. “Okay, okay, so maybe she should settle down with Jose. Or was it Carlos? Or Alejandro? No wait, I think that was last week.”  
  
“We go over this freakin’ every day, man.” His couch mate sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face.  
  
“I know, I know. But she’s a strong woman. Does she really even need a man in her life?”  
  
There’s a collective grumble before someone yells, “Maribel should be with Jorge,” and an active, angry discussion erupts between the men.  
  
Tony hops to his feet, adding his two cents on the way out: “I think she should be with Luis.”  
  
Someone shouts a curse after him as he retreats to the adjoining room. The wind that sneaks through the broken windows forces the door closed, its thud grating Tony's already frayed nerves. He slides the phone from his sleeve and zips his jacket to his throat while he waits for it to turn on. The flash of a nearly dead battery makes him cringe, but it only needs to work for one call…just one call.  
  
Before he even dials Gibbs’ area code, an approaching commotion grabs his attention.  
  
Heart in his throat, Tony creeps to the doorway, pushing it open just enough to peer into the hallway that leads to Carreras’ office. Further up, he can make out the sight of two figures forcing another one forward in the darkness. When they draw closer, his heart drops to his stomach.  
  
Hector and another one of Carreras’ henchmen march a blindfolded and bound Tim forward.  
  
“Where are you taking me?” Tim yells, the terror in his voice tightening Tony’s chest.  
  
Reaching for the Glock tucked at the small of his back, he lopes towards the trio, uncertain how the situation will play out. He isn’t ready for a potential gunfight. Eight thugs against one armed federal agent aren’t particularly favorable odds, especially when the main objective is to protect his partner.  
  
While he might be a betting man, he just isn’t ready to gamble with Tim’s life.  
  
Sidling up to the group, Tony grins as nonchalantly as he can. “What’s going on?”  
  
Tim relaxes slightly in between the men holding him.  
  
“Dunno, just followin’ orders,” Hector shrugs, trying to slide past Tony.  
  
Carreras emerges from the passage, features dark as he talks into his phone. Tony’s grip tenses on his Glock as he steps towards Tim, readying for what might come. Heart pounding in his chest, his eyes dart from Dario and Hector’s bored faces to Carreras’ eyes that burn like fire.  
  
“Yo, Rico, what’s goin’ on?”  
  
“I was on my way to find you and the others. The situation’s changed back in Baltimore. One of my shipments got ‘lost’ and I need to clean up the mess. Keep an eye on things here for me.”  
  
By the way Carreras talks, Tony figures that it’s about much more than a lost package.  
  
“And what about the fed?”  
  
“Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”  
  
Carreras barrels forward towards the door, waving his henchmen to follow. Just as Tony steps in their way, Tim wrenches his body sideways, out of Hector’s grip, and slams full-force into Dario. Knocked off-kilter, the pair hits the concrete floor with a sickening crack and a dull thud. Hector’s fist to Tim’s face ends whatever fight he had left, and he drops limply to the ground.  
  
Sighing quietly, Tony runs his hand over his forehead.  
  
 _Come on McGee, that was a probie move._  
  
Scrambling to his feet, Dario stares wide-eyed at his left wrist. He flexes his fingers, wincing at the motion. Under Tony’s gaze, the appendage turns a revolting shade of purple and begins to swell.  
  
“I think that bastard just broke my wrist.”  
  
Rolling his eyes exasperatedly, Carreras points to Tony -  “You’re coming. Dario, stay here.” – as he hustles out of the room.  
  
“You okay, man?” Hector asks.  
  
Narrowing his eyes at Tim’s unconscious form, Dario reels his leg back and slams it into the junior agent’s stomach. Tim moans quietly, rolling onto his side as he curls into himself. When Dario winds up again, Tony grabs his shoulder and yanks him away.  
  
“You let Rico handle the fed, got it?”  
  
“Fine,” Dario growls, hawking a wad of spit in Tim’s direction before storming out into the main room.  
  
Hector looks down at Tim and frowns deeply. “Guess we gotta carry him, huh?”  
  
Tony nods. “Just give me a minute? I forgot something in the office.”  
  
Darting into the hallway that leads to Carreras’ office, Tony quickly retrieves the cell from his pocket. Dialing Gibbs’ number, he holds his breath at the staccato of the ring tone. His eyes jump from the area where the girls are being held to where Hector just moved Tim.  
  
 _“Gibbs.”_  
  
“Boss, its DiNozzo. Trace this phone.”  
  
 _“Tony, where’s - ”_  
  
“Carreras is taking him to Baltimore and I’m going too. I’ll contact you when I can.”  
  
There’s a tense inhale. _“Where are you now?”_  
  
“In a warehouse near Buzzard Point. The girls are here.”  
  
 _“Just stay put. We’re on our way.”_  
  
Hector’s head suddenly pops in the door frame, making Tony slide the phone into his pocket.  
  
“Come on, man, we gotta go.”  
  
“Right behind ya.”  
  
Tony crouches to fumble with his boot as Hector turns around to check on Tim’s unmoving body. Positioning the phone by the wall, he hopes that no one finds it before Gibbs arrives.  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**6:43pm – St. Catherine’s Hospital – Capitol Hill, Washington, DC – Concurrent with Tony DiNozzo’s Entertainment Especial -**  
  
Before the elevator doors fully open, Gibbs slithers through them, leaving Fornell and Ziva on their own to catch up. Not even bothering to read the signs overhead, he rushes past scrub-clad personnel and patients pushing IV poles through the brightly lit hallway. He locates the dark-haired man in a Metro police uniform at the nurse’s station clear on the other side of the building.  
  
Leaned over a wood paneled desk, the cop tries to engage an obviously bored redhead in conversation.  
  
“Officer Bowser?” Gibbs interrupts, reaching for his badge.  
  
Chat cut short, the officer turns around, hawkish features twisted in annoyance. Over his shoulder, Gibbs watches the redhead roll her eyes, then drop them back to her magazine.  
  
“Agent...“  
  
“Fornell, FBI,” Fornell wheezes his presence as he appears by Gibbs’ shoulder.  
  
“Gibbs. Officer David, NCIS,” Gibbs says, gesturing to himself and Ziva.  
  
“Officer Derek Bowser, nice to meet y’all.” The cop extends his hands to the group, then looks back to the redhead. “I’ll catch you later, Viv. Give me a call so we can finally get that drink.”  
  
Bowser winks suggestively before he marches down the hallway. When she grimaces at the cop’s back, Gibbs can’t help but smirk. He trails the group down the brightly-lit corridor. The doors on either side are open slightly, each revealing an identical scene of a hospital bed. A whooping cough sounds nearby, and Bowser covers his nose and mouth with his hands to ward the germs away.  
  
“So what happened, officer?” Fornell asks breathlessly, struggling to keep up with the cop’s long strides.  
  
“Well, it’s like my partner reported on the phone. We were on routine patrol heading north on Q Street Southwest when we came across a Jane Doe heading east on Third Street Southwest. We were unable to communicate with her, so we brought her to the hospital as a precaution. The doctors in the ED did a standard work-up.” Bowser’s features pinch again, his dark eyes turning nearly black.  
  
“For what?” Gibbs speaks up.  
  
“Sexual assault, Agent Gibbs. Based on the bruising evident on her physical exam, Dr. Chapmen felt it necessary to complete a rape kit. Came back positive for spermicide. Jane Doe got upset during that part, but my partner managed to calm her down. I’m not entirely sure she understands what’s going on.” Bowser checks his watch. “Looks like we’re stuck until social services shows up so we can transfer custody.”  
  
When they reach a closed door, Bowser plops into a chair by it.  
  
“You take her statement?”  
  
“Tried, but we haven’t been able to. Jane Doe speaks something that sounds like Russian, but she doesn’t understand any of the languages we tried. So we’re still waiting on someone from social services that might be able to talk to her. They’re spread thin at the moment…you know how it is.” He shrugs apologetically. “Until then, the physical evidence will have to speak for itself.” Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the wall. “She seems to like my partner, so we’ll probably be here a while.”  
  
Gibbs’ frown deepens. “Your partner said Jane Doe might’ve seen my agent?”  
  
“You’d have to ask her yourself.” When Gibbs starts to head inside, Bowser grabs his arm and gestures to Ziva. “Might want to send her. Jane Doe’s not too keen on men.”  
  
Gibbs looks over shoulder, surveying Ziva’s rigid stance.  
  
“Rather handle it myself.” He sweeps the cop’s hand away. “Might even get a statement for ya.”  
  
He wrenches the door open, an overwhelming reek of pine hitting him in the face, like someone’s sprayed an air freshener one too many times. Coughing, Gibbs freezes at the sight of the rail-thin teenager in the oversized hospital bed. Blonde hair slick with grease and dirty face covered with deep purple bruises in different stages of healing, she meets his eyes. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he notices that she holds the hand of the red-haired cop in the visitor’s chair. Her knuckles are whiter than the sheets.  
  
“Agent Gibbs?” the cop asks, voice soft.  
  
He nods slowly, showing his badge. “Officer Johnson?”  
  
“Hailey, please, - ” she gestures to the teenager, smiling helplessly,  “- and I don’t know who this is.”  
  
“Your partner said you think she might speak Russian?”  
  
Shrugging slightly, she meets his gaze. “Well, we’ve tried several others. No one at the hospital on this shift speaks it, so we’re hoping someone might be soon.”  
  
 _“You speak Russian?”_  
  
The teenager’s eyes snap to his face, life seeping back into them quickly.  
  
 _“What’s your name? How old are you?”_  
  
Hailey gasps, quieting when Gibbs holds up his hand. There’s a long silence as the teenager studies him, trying to determine whether she can trust him.  
  
 _“Ksenia Ilyinichna Petrova, and I’m fifteen. Who are you?”_ she says.  
  
 _“Agent Gibbs. I’m here to help.”_  
  
 _“That’s exactly what he said.”_  
  
 _“Who said that?”_ When Gibbs takes a step forward, she bristles, pressing deeper into her pillows. _“I won’t hurt you.”_  
  
 _“That’s what they say…that’s what they always say!”_ she murmurs, tears springing to her eyes.  
  
 _“Ksenia, who’s they?”_  
  
 _“The men with the stars on their necks. They always promise they won’t hurt us, but they do. They take us to people who do things…terrible things.”_ Her mouth opens in a silent scream and she touches her hand to her swollen cheek. “ _And if we try to say no, the men with the stars…they hit us until we do what we’re told. I never do what I’m told…neither does Katja. Oh my G-d, Katja. She was right behind me…did anyone find her? She was right behind me!”_  
  
“Did you see anyone else on patrol?” Gibbs asks, watching the tears well in Ksenia’s eyes.  
  
Hailey shakes her head, squeezing the teenager’s hand. “She was the only one all afternoon.”  
  
Ksenia seemingly understands, letting out a heart-crushing wail as she presses the blanket to her face. While her thin body quakes with sobs, Hailey squeezes her shoulder. Gibbs perches on the edge of the bed, studying his shoes. A few minutes pass until Ksenia re-emerges, forcing a brave smile on her tear-streaked face.  
  
 _“I lost Katja and Irina in one of the hallways. The men with the stars were coming and we got split up and I didn’t…” h_ er chest heaves as she barely holds back the sobs, _“…I didn’t know where to go. I walked through a lot of hallways…there were lots and lots of turns, then a doorway. Then I was on a street with buildings that all looked the same. I walked and walked and I was so cold.”_  
  
Anguish twists her battered features, and Gibbs touches her hand. The way she recoils feels like a kick to his chest.  
  
 _“We’re going to find them,” he promises. “Can you tell me how many girls there are?”_  
  
 _“Eight, including me. Sometimes there’s more, sometimes there’s less. It depends on who gets taken on a job - ”_ her hands twist the blanket tightly _“ - and who comes back.”_  
  
Before she can dissolve into tears again, Gibbs reaches into his pocket to slide out a few photos. When he holds out Tim’s personnel image, she squints through her swollen eyes, so he steps closer. The way she shrinks towards Hailey breaks his heart, but there’s nothing he can do about it.  
  
 _“You seen him?”_  
  
 _“That’s Maggeee Teem. He helped me…is he okay?”_  
  
 _“I don’t know yet.”_ He pauses when her breathing turns ragged, opting to show her a picture of Tony instead. Her light eyes narrow at the senior agent’s easy grin. _“You seen him?”_  
  
 _“He’s the one with the fire and the stars.”_ She spits right at Tony’s face. Wiping the spittle on his pants, Gibbs slides the picture back into his pocket.  
  
“That’s your agent, isn’t it?" Hailey asks, taking Tim’s picture from Gibbs. "Does she know anything?”  
  
“Not as much as I’d hoped, but there are more girls out there and my agents are still alive. Can’t tell us where she was held. Where’d you pick her up?”  
  
“Just off Q Street Southwest by the old oil plant, but she was literally freezing when we found her. Looked like she’d been walking for a while. There are a lot of abandoned warehouses down there. She could’ve been anywhere,” Hailey relays, making Gibbs’ scowl deepen.  
  
He rises from the bed, pacing the length of the room before turning back to the women. Propped up against the hospital-issue pillows, Ksenia appears far younger than her years. Fearing that this lead might be a waste of time, Gibbs flicks through his photos, stopping at the one of the teenager in the morgue.  
  
He sighs.  
  
She shouldn’t have to see this…but she might just be the key to his corpse’s identity.  
  
 _“What are you looking at?”_ Ksenia asks, pointing to his collection.  
  
 _“Something I need your help with.”_  
  
 _“If I can help to find them, show me.”_  
  
When he follows the quiet voice back to the bed, their eyes lock, and Gibbs is amazed by how much she ages in the span of a few seconds. With her jaw set defiantly and determination burning in her eyes, Ksenia resembles the woman that she’s growing into. When he gets closer to her, she yanks the photo out of his hand to study the lifeless face. Tears welling in her eyes, she looks back up at him.  
  
 _“Yelena Nikolayova Korovina. She was already there when I arrived. We used to talk at night. She went out once and never came back. Did she do it to herself?”_ When Gibbs nods, Ksenia smiles knowingly. _“G-d answered her prayers.”_  
  
Her response breaks his heart. Unable to form words, he takes her hand, and she squeezes it back. There’s a long silence until his phone buzzes to life, the screen flashing an unknown number.  
  
He flips it open. “Gibbs.”  
  
 _“Boss, it’s DiNozzo. Trace this phone.”_  
  
Gut in knots at the tense voice, Gibbs waves to the women as he darts back into the hallway. Both Fornell and Bowser lean against the wall, and Ziva rests in the chair by the door. When Gibbs snaps his fingers and points to his phone, she shoots to her feet and pulls out her cell.  
  
 “Tony, where’s – “  
  
 _“Carreras is taking him to Baltimore and I’m going too. I’ll contact you when I can.”_  
  
“Where are you now?” he breathes, bolting down the hallway to the emergency stairwell.  
  
 _“In a warehouse near Buzzard Point. The girls are here.”_  
  
“Just stay put. We’re on our way.”  
  
Even though his feet slam against the steps and his pulse echoes in his ears, Gibbs can only focus on the quiet voice in the background on Tony’s end.  
  
 _“Come on, man, we gotta go.”_  
  
 _“Right behind ya.”_  
  
Gibbs’ blood runs cold. Pressing the phone deeper to his ear, he strains for any noises that might give away his agents’ location, but there's only  looming silence. When Gibbs hits the ground level, he barrels into the door, letting his momentum carry him into the freezing fall air. He pauses, listening to the unsettling stillness on the other end of the call.  
  
 _DiNozzo’s already gone._  
  
He punches the air, hoping Tony’ll feel that headslap wherever he is. Screwing his face in disgust, Gibbs glances around the poorly-lit hospital campus to where he parked the Charger on their arrival. While his breathing evens, Fornell and Ziva burst through the door behind him.  
  
“Abby confirmed an address. The cell phone is near the intersection of Half and R Streets, Southwest,” Ziva reports, shoulders hitching as she pants.  
  
“Then let’s try to catch them in time. Think you can get us some back-up, Tobias?”  
  
Fornell, doubled over and breathing hard, gives him a thumbs-up. Gibbs grins. Locating the Charger parked sideways under a street lamp, he sprints towards it. Ziva arrives first, sliding into the passenger seat. Fornell collapses into the backseat.  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to close the door before the car squeals out of the parking lot.


	24. Chapter 24

  
**7:45pm – 2867 Rickert St – Cherry Hill Neighborhood, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
While the Tahoe lurches over every pothole on the inner-city street, Tony watches the outlines of derelict buildings slide past the window, their facings barely visible in the sulfuric glow of the street lamps. He leans his head against the seat, hazarding a quiet sigh. Since they haven’t passed any marker of civilization like a bailbondsman or a seedy bar for several blocks, he assumes they’re edging into Angel Caido territory.  
  
He presses his lips together, letting his eyes wander over the group. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Hector intensely keeps his focus on the road ahead. Carreras stares out the passenger window, drumming his fingers against the handle as he likely contemplates what he’ll do to the man who ‘diverted’ his shipment…and what he’ll do to Tim. The thought turns Tony’s stomach. Shaking his head to chase the images away, he looks to the henchman that he only knows as Juan, who's gaming on his phone. The screen’s light illuminates the thug’s face, making him look ghoulish.  
  
Tony shudders.  
  
In the trunk space, Tim breathes evenly, slightly muffled by the blanket Hector covered him with earlier. For a brief moment, Tony wonders whether he might actually be pretending to be unconscious.  
  
 _Probie can’t lie if his life depended on it. Too bad, it just might._  
  
His gaze flicks back to the world outside. Halfway down the street of ramshackle buildings, Hector cuts the wheel to the left, bouncing the SUV into a small parking lot. After the vehicle grinds to a stop, Tony scrambles out into the freezing night. Just ahead of them stands an office building that used to be white until the years of smog and grime rendered it a slimy grey.  
  
A frigid breeze, thick with the feeling of rain, carries the stench of the nearby docks.  
  
His eyes close.  
  
 _I can’t believe they still use this place._  
  
With his murderous sight set on the building, Carreras sidles next to Tony. When the thug rips the gun out of his waistband, Tony pulls his jacket tighter.  
  
“Do you remember Raoul, Tony?”  
  
“Yeah, real loyal guy, right?”  
  
Carreras nods tensely, not taking his eyes off the structure. “He used to be. One of my shipments never showed up last night. Since I left him in charge, I bet he's got something to do with it.”  
  
“So what do you want us to do?” he asks, gesturing back at Hector and Juan who lean against the car.  
  
“Give me a few minutes to make sure he’s not stupid enough to still be here. I’d like to deal with him alone.” Carreras loads a bullet into his gun’s chamber and Hector flinches visibly.  
  
“You sure you don’t want someone to go with you?”  
  
“Alej and Chale are still here. Tony, you and Hector bring that fed in a few minutes. If Raoul isn’t here, we’ll figure out what the feds know.” He grins wickedly. “Juan, you’re outside. If anybody tries to get in, shoot them.”  
  
The dangerous look on Carreras’ face makes Tony wince. The last time he saw that expression, several members of a rival cartel turned up brutally murdered. There was just enough left of the bodies for a tissue sample.  
  
Carreras stalks across the crumbling blacktop, the car’s headlights shining on his parting form.  
  
Tony swallows hard, turning back to the pair of thugs leaning against the car. He sucks a breath through his teeth; his brain churns as it searches for a new plan. If one of them had gone with Carreras, he could’ve ended the situation without incident. One arrest for him and a count of grand theft auto for Masterson would get him and Tim to safety. But when Hector hikes up his sleeve to show Juan the newest addition to his skeleton tattoo, Tony can’t bring himself to make the gamble with Tim’s life.  
  
Even though he’s undercover, he’s still responsible for his junior agent’s safety.  
  
He glances to the sky, watching a low-flying plane’s lights flash underneath the clouds.  
  
“Don't we got somethin’ to do?” Tony asks.  
  
“Carreras told us to wait,” Juan responds, kicking a rock across the asphalt.  
  
More moist air rolls off the river, and a clap of thunder booms.  
  
“Why don’t we do it now? Unless you wanna be floatin’ away in a few.”  
  
The shadows on Hector’s face deepen, and even in the near dark, Tony can see the whites of his eyes in the dramatic eye roll. But when fat raindrops begin to fall, they quickly head to the trunk and Tony follows, hand around his gun. Just as the rear door rises, Tim explodes, kicking and twisting away from the thugs. He even manages to hit Hector in the stomach once before Juan plants his weapon firmly under the junior agent’s jaw.  
  
The look of abject terror on Tim’s face makes Tony freeze.  
  
He can’t bear to watch, focusing on the large pistol in Hector’s hands instead.  
  
“Where’s your girly gun, man?” Tony asks.  
  
“Went out and got a better one,” Hector says, starting towards the building.  
  
By the time they reach the small overhang by the entrance, the rain has grown steadier, its droplets creating a haze in the glow of the street lamps. Tony carefully checks Tim over. With a split lip joining the angry purple plastered on his left cheek and the right side of his face, the younger man certainly has seen better days.  
  
But at least, he’s still alive.  
  
“Think we should go in or what?” Hector asks, frowning at the downpour.  
  
“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Tony nods. “Glad we’re not the one stayin’ out in this.”  
  
Juan’s features pinch in annoyance as he pushes Tim into Hector’s outstretched hands. Hunching against the siding, he yanks a cigarette out of his coat pocket. There’s a lighter’s blaze in the darkness, and Tony flashes him a broad grin. He wrenches open the metal door and ducks into the building, barely catching the muttered curses under the sound of rainfall.  
  
The stench of must peppered with mold leaves him hacking violently. Up ahead, Hector leads Tim at gunpoint down the pitch-dark hallway until they reach a spacious backroom, accented with all the mildew and grime that Tony smelled at the front door. Scattered around are a few tortuous looking chairs and a lopsided table. One of the fluorescent lights overhead flickers, making Hector’s movements flash like they’re in a carnival’s haunted house as he dumps Tim unceremoniously on the filthy tile floor.  
  
A thunderclap echoes, sounding almost like a gunshot, and everyone jumps. When Tim finally rights himself against the wall, his face is grim. His shoulders shift slightly as he works at something behind his back. Tony reaches into his pocket, feeling the handcuff key that he stole from Carreras’ desk while searching for a phone.  
  
When Hector starts to turn towards the junior agent, Tony snaps his fingers. “Go check on Rico.”  
  
“Come on, man, you know that’s just thunder.”  
  
“And if it isn’t?”  
  
Features contorting into a sour expression, Hector stares defiantly at Tony for a second then finally disappears into the hallway. When the door slams, Tony hurries to Tim’s side and plucks the blindfold from his eyes. The right one’s nearly swollen shut and that side of Tim’s face has turned a sickening shade of black mixed with purple.  
  
“Are you okay, Probie?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”  
  
Pulling out the key, Tony just shrugs, then releases the handcuffs.  
  
Teeth clenched, Tim carefully tries to bring his arms forward. As the right one falls limply to his side, he lets out a hiss. In his left hand, he holds out a cell phone that Tony recognizes as Juan’s.  
  
“I tried to call Gibbs already, but I can’t dial without seeing the screen.”  
  
“Good job, Probie,” Tony praises, taking the cell.  
  
Tim's tight grin re-opens the split in his lip and the blood dribbles down his chin. When he tests the movement of his right hand, he yelps loudly, writhing his body against the wall. Tony’s gaze flicks from the phone to the younger man’s anguished face.  
  
“McGee?”  
  
“My arm,” he moans quietly. “My arm…I don’t know what happened to it. One of those guys kicked me back at the warehouse. I didn’t think it was that bad until I tried to move it. Tony, it really hurts…”  
  
“Then don’t move it unless you need to,” Tony replies, tapping Gibbs’ number into the phone.  
  
While it rings, his eyes meet Tim’s grim gaze.  
  
“Tony, do you think we’ll get out of - “  
  
 _“Gibbs.”_  
  
Tony inhales at the sound of his boss’ voice, surprisingly comforted by its gruffness.  
  
“Boss."  
  
 _“DiNozzo, where the hell are you?”_  
  
“In Baltimore.”  
  
 _“Already knew that, where exactly?”_  
  
“2687 Rickert Street, Cherry Hill neighborhood. Do you know where that is?”  
  
 _“We’ll find you. Where’s McGee?”_  
  
“Here, with me. He’s fine. Are you –“  
  
 _“On our way. Should be there in about a half an hour. Hold on until we get there.”_  
  
“On it boss,” Tony says, sliding the phone back into his pocket.  
  
The crack of a gunshot echoes from above makes Tim wince, frightened eyes flicking to the ceiling. Jumping when another one sounds, Tony sucks in a deep breath.  
  
“Tony, what do we do?”  
  
The third shot makes them both flinch and Tony presses his lips together, assuming Carreras just took care of Raoul. With one problem out of the way, they’ll be coming to interrogate Tim soon. Seemingly at the same realization, the junior agent swallows audibly. Tony eases a knife out of the sheath on his belt.  
  
“Can you fight?” When Tim nods slowly, Tony passes it to the younger man. “Wait for my signal.”  
  
“If I don’t make it...” Tim drops his eyes to the floor. “I have a little sister. Her name’s Sarah…can you tell her that I – “  
  
“Whatever it is, McGee, you’ll tell her yourself. You got that?”  
  
Tim states blankly at him, but when approaching footsteps thudding in the hallway, he nods with a new found determination. Features twisting in pain, he settles back against the wall, tucking his hands and the knife behind his back. Tony rises from his crouch and grabs one of the chairs, dragging it closer to Tim. When he plops into the seat, it groans under his weight.  
  
While he waits for the group to enter, Tony clutches his Glock so hard that his knuckles turn white.  
  
The door opens and Hector and a pair of unfamiliar men enter, weapons already in their hands. Ignoring Tim’s panicked stare, Tony leans back nonchalantly in the chair, further unsettled by its ominous moan.  
  
“So you guys find Raoul or what?”  
  
“Not yet, man. Alej and Chale held up one of the guys that’s helpin’ him. Needed a little motivation to remember what happened. Carreras is still up there talkin’ to him. Told us to come down and get the fed ready. Guess he feels talkative tonight,” Hector relays with a shrug.  
  
“Give him a little more time,” Tony advises. “You know how Rico likes to take things slow.”  
  
“Yeah, guess you’re right. No sense in rushin’ it.”  
  
There’s a tense silence while Tony carefully watches the trio disperse, making sure none of them get too close to Tim. The thug he figures must be Alej drops into a seat nearby, its creak echoing hollowly. When Hector and Chale slide towards Tim, Tony’s hand tightens on his Glock. He sucks in a lungful of musty air, the faint smell of mold and decay tickling his nostrils.  
  
His tight muscles ache, begging for action, yet he lets the situation run its course.  
  
He hazards a glance at Tim, the expression on his face making Tony’s blood run cold. His leg starts to bounce as he feels the rough grip of his gun dig deeper into the palm of his hand.  
  
 _Hurry up, boss._


	25. Chapter 25

**8:11pm - 2867 Rickert St – Cherry Hill Neighborhood, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
With minutes passing like hours,Tony doesn’t know how long the five of them wait in the back office. He keeps his attention divided on the three thugs scattered around the room. Even though he can feel Tim’s anxious gaze, Tony can’t bring himself to look at the younger man again.  
  
All he needs to do is hold out until Gibbs arrives.  
  
Pressing his lips together, Tony glances towards Alej. Oblivious to the world, the thug plays a game on his cell phone. Several feet away, Hector and Chale share a muted conversation, lingering dangerously close to Tim. No matter how hard he strains his ears, Tony only picks out the occasional Spanish word. For all he can tell, they might be talking about food.  
  
When a ringing breaks the tense silence, Tony swings his gun towards Alej. Still engrossed in his game, he pumps his fist and grins broadly. Tony lets out a quiet puff of relief, weapon falling limply to his side.  
  
“Whoa man, why you wiggin’ out? Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on,” Hector calls.  
  
“Didn’t expect that freakin’ game to be so loud.” Tony laughs, collapsing back into his seat.  
  
Alej shoots them a sheepish grin, then he mutes his phone. The clicking of the keypad begins to grate Tony’s nerves. Hector continues to stare intently at him, and it only takes a few seconds before the feeling makes his skin crawl.  
  
He narrows his eyes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Think we should get the fed ready for Carreras?” Hector suggests, jerking his head towards Tim.  
  
“I’m not big on kickin’ the shit out of a guy who can’t fight back. Where’s the fun in that?” Tony cracks a tight grin.  
  
“Well, then we’ll get him loosened up.”  
  
“Let Rico handle it himself,” Tony orders, meeting Tim’s terrified stare.  
  
Tony holds his breath for several beats until Chale hauls Tim roughly to his feet anyway. Tony slams his Glock against Alej’s head and the thug hits the ground, cell phone shattering next to him.  
  
“Now, McGee!”  
  
Tim lashes out with the knife, plunging it into Chale’s stomach. With a gut wrenching shriek, the thug crumples to the floor. When Tim turns to attack Hector, a punch to the gut drops him to his knees. The knife skitters away.  
  
The glint of the gun in Hector’s hand makes Tony bark, “Federal agent, drop the gun!”  
  
Just as Hector’s weapon drifts toward Tim’s head, Tony pulls the Glock’s trigger. Hector jerks backwards, slamming into the wall, a blood trail following him to the floor. Eyes wide with surprise, he watches Tim climb to his feet and pick the gun off the ground. Hector’s lips move, but he can only let out a low moan. His eyelids sag as he begins to lose consciousness.  
  
With his commandeered gun trained on Hector, Tim joins Tony by the door so they can wait for Gibbs.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m okay. I just... I can't... oh G-d... “ He shudders, surveying the scene. "Are you okay?”  
  
Unable to stand the way his friend holds his right arm to his chest, Tony’s eyes dart back to Hector.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Tony and Tim share an uneasy silence, watching Chale and Hector slowly bleed to death.  
  
Suddenly, Tim lets out a loud yelp and his gun hits the ground with a metallic clink.  
  
“You sure you’re alright, Probie?”  
  
“Probie? That’s cute.” The sound of Carreras’ voice turns Tony’s blood to ice.  
  
Fighting the dread that builds in his throat, he turns to find Carreras in the doorway, arm snaked around Tim’s neck and a gun against his temple. Tony automatically aims his weapon at Carreras’ head. Pulse pounding in his ears, Tony meets the drug dealer’s murderous glare.  
  
“Federal agent. Drop the gun,” he orders.  
  
“You FBI?”  
  
When Tony doesn’t respond, Carreras’ grip tightens enough to make Tim’s strident inhalations vanish. Tim’s left hand lands on the forearm around his neck as he struggles to regain his airway.  
  
Tony inhales slowly, forcing himself not to squeeze the trigger.  
  
 _I might hit McGee…_  
  
Face bright red with effort, Tim’s eyelids begin to droop. When his stance slips, Carreras releases the choke-hold just enough to let the junior agent suck in a deep breath.  
  
“Are you FBI?” Carreras repeats, jerking his arm against Tim’s neck again.  
  
“NCIS,” Tony growls.  
  
“Same as this guy?”  
  
“Yeah, same as that guy.” His hand tightens on the grip, fighting the slick of sweat blossoming from his palm.  
  
“What’s your name, fed?”  
  
“Why? You wanna remember the guy who took you outta the game?”  
  
“The one who tried,” Carreras corrects, digging his gun deeper into Tim’s temple.  
  
Tony fakes a laugh, grimacing as he adjusts his aim slightly. Even though he practices religiously, he still tends to drift slightly right to…exactly where Tim’s head is. He presses his lips together, cringing at the way his friend slouches in Carreras’ hold. When the grasp on his neck loosens, Tim inhales heavily.  
  
“Drop the weapon, Rico. I won’t ask you again.”  
  
“You drop yours or I’ll kill him.”  
  
Tim’s flushed features pale suddenly. Not meeting his friend’s wide eyes, Tony sets his sight on Carreras forehead. Just as he’s about to pull the trigger, Tim bucks backwards, knocking Carreras and himself off balance. Tony whips his gun towards the tussle, unable to get a clear shot. A weapon pops out from the fight and Tim follows it to the ground, landing hard on his stomach. When Carreras tries to pull him away, Tim kicks him in the face while swinging the gun around in one fluid motion.  
  
Panting, Tim keeps the gun trained on Carreras as Tony rushes forward to arrest him. When he hears the last click of the handcuffs, Tim relaxes against the floor with a long exhale. Tony stands over him, grinning broadly as he studies the younger man.  
  
 _I’m not sure I’d have the balls for that._  
  
“Good work, Probster,” Tony says, helping Tim to his feet. “Just don’t do it again.”  
  
“Thanks, Tony.” He forces a brave smile.  
  
“You’re welcome.” He shrugs, shifting his body so Tim doesn’t see the shake in his hands. Touching one to the back of his head, Tony laughs quietly as he closes his eyes.  
  
The door suddenly flies open, slamming into the moldy drywall.  
  
Police pour into the room, their guns at the ready.  
  
“Baltimore PD! Get your hands up!” one of them yells.  
  
Dropping his weapon, Tony raises his hands and Tim copies the action with a grimace.  
  
“We’re federal agents,” he announces, trying not to look at the guns in his face.  
  
When Gibbs and Ziva bring up the rear, he points at Tony and Tim. “Those two are mine.”  
  
The weapons move away, and Tony lets out a loud sigh of relief. Dropping into a chair, Tim leans forward, perspiration beading on his forehead. While the police and paramedics busy themselves with the cartel members, Tony watches his boss carefully study them both. The glare softens when he notices the bruising that continues to darken across Tim’s cheek.  
  
“You two okay?” Gibbs asks.  
  
“Fine,” Tony says, crossing his arms.  
  
“Yeah, fine,” Tim echoes, eyes dropping to the floor as Gibbs crouches in front of him. When his boss touches his right shoulder, his face twists in anguish.  
  
“You’re not fine, Tim.” He shakes his head. “Ziver, make sure he gets to the hospital. I’ll be by later to check on you both.”  
  
“Yes, Gibbs,” Ziva replies, easing Tim up.  
  
While his partners head out of the room, paramedics and police push their way past Tony to transport the patient-prisoners to the hospital. Watching an officer recite Carreras his Miranda rights makes Tony smirk. A solid rap to the back of his head knocks it away.  
  
“Boss?”  
  
“That’s for not calling me sooner.” Gibbs squeezes Tony’s shoulder tightly. “But you did good protecting McGee and keeping the case going. That’s exactly what I expect of you.”  
  
His grin returns. “Thanks, boss.”  
  
\--  
  
 **9:39pm - 2867 Rickert St – Cherry Hill Neighborhood, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
Back against the rough brick wall, Tony watches the red and blue whirls of the Metro cruiser’s siren blend together with the sulfuric street lamps’ glow into a frenzied pinwheel. He can barely make out the forms of the police officers that wait inside the vehicle. Not quite brave enough to face the misting rain, they work on something, their twin cell phone screens burning in the darkness.  
  
Tony lets out a sigh, hugging his arms to his chest as he listens to the steady drum on the overhang. Even though Fornell and Gibbs requested that he walk them through the evening again, he just can’t bring himself to step back inside. The scene itself should be straightforward enough for them to figure out on their own : three semi-conscious and wounded thugs, an injured federal agent, and Enrico Carreras finally under arrest.  
  
But that’s only the part he saw. From what he overheard, the cops found a body upstairs, tied to a chair and riddled with bullet holes.  
  
 _That could’ve been me and Tim._  
  
The door swings open, nearly hitting Tony. Both Fornell and Gibbs appear, heavily in debate. When they notice him, they grow silent.  
  
“Didn’t see you there, DiNozzo,” Fornell says.  
  
“Guess I just needed some air,” he admits, turning his attention back to the parking.  
  
“Yeah, don’t blame you. Sounds like you had a busy day.”  
  
Tony smiles tightly, watching the occupied cop car pull into a K-turn before it flies out of the parking lot. The sirens scream as it rushes away, the city swallowing its lights, leaving only the yellowed halos of the streetlamps to shimmer in the rain. When he realizes they still have to deal with the matter that brought Tim here, Tony runs his hand over his face.  
  
Getting arrested would make for a spectacular end to a wonderful day.  
  
“How’s McGee, boss?” he asks instead.  
  
“Fine. Ziva said they’re still waiting for the doctor. Must be a busy night.”  
  
“Always is on Friday.” Tony sighs quietly, gaze jumping between the two men.  
  
Gibbs’ phone rings. He turns his collar up as he goes to take the call. Even though Tony strains his ears, he can’t make out any conversation. He turns his attention to Fornell instead.  
  
“Do you really think I killed that guy?”  
  
“Let’s just wait for a second,” Fornell offers, waiting until Gibbs rushes back under the overhang.  
  
“Looks like you were right, Tobias.” Gibbs shakes off his phone, flicking water onto the ground.  
  
“Did you expect anything else?” He laughs heartily. “What’d Abby have to say?”  
  
“She pulled a print off the gun that matches four others. Says she still hasn’t gotten an ID yet, but one of the unidentified bodies might be Colvin’s stepson.”  
  
Fornell grins. “Looks like you might just be off the hook, DiNozzo. But I do have to seize that jacket for evidence, just in case. Colvin’ll nail my ass to the wall if I don’t.”  
  
Nodding silently, Tony shrugs it off. His fingers linger on the supple leather until Fornell pulls it from his grasp. A blast of wind suddenly hits them and Tony shudders, trying to chase the bite away.  
  
 _Anthony Masterson is finally gone._  
  
“When are we doing the debrief?” Tony asks quietly.  
  
Fornell’s face screws in thought, looking to Gibbs who shakes his head slowly.  
  
“Not tonight. Get some sleep. We’ll catch up tomorrow. I think I’ve got my hands full with Carreras.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Fornell nods, then vanishes back into the building.  
  
The door slams, leaving Tony to debate about what he should say to his boss. Before he can formulate a coherent sentence, Gibbs waves over his shoulder, drawing them both out into the rain. Even though he covers his head with his hands, Tony ends up drenched by the time he squelches into the passenger seat of the Charger. With the water soaking through his shirt, he shivers violently and Gibbs flicks on the heat. He slumps back, ready to slide into oblivion when a jingle catches his attention. Pulling out his cell phone, Gibbs makes a face at the screen.  
  
“Damn thing makes noise when no one calls,” he growls, chucking it into the cup holder.  
  
Tony retrieves it, flipping it open to find the text message indicator flashing.  
  
“You just got a text from McGee, boss. I guess he got his hands on Ziva’s phone,” he replies, shocked to find a few dozen unread messages from Abby and Tim that are several months old in the inbox. Opening his teammate’s newest message, he reads it aloud. “‘Still waiting to see the doctor, running a couple tests now so that’ll keep me busy. Think I’m in for a long night.’”  
  
While Gibbs lets out a long sigh, Tony sags back against the seat again and scrolls through the other text messages. With all the shorthand and emoticons, he doubts that his boss would be able to translate them…if he even knew how to check them.  
  
The fog from the heater creeps over the windshield and Gibbs growls, reaching after the climate controls. The defrosters kicks on, making the engine jump.  
  
“What the hell happened?” Gibbs finally asks.  
  
Tony closes the phone, instantly comforted by the darkness. Swallowing hard, he stares at the outlines of buildings that loom outside the car.  
  
“It’ll take a while,” he replies flatly, feeling Gibbs throw the car in gear.  
  
The headlights blaze in the near dark, illuminating the broken macadam and dormant police cars. As the car bounces out of the parking lot, Tony watches the world pass him by. The Charger traces its way through the dilapidated neighborhood, taking careful turns until it hits a main thoroughfare. The rundown buildings outside begin to turn into occupied storefronts, their lights leading the way back to civilization. Tony stares at his hands in his lap until the vehicle stops abruptly.  
  
Just outside the window, a small bar lies nestled between an all-night grocer and a video rental store. Tony truly doubts Gibbs has a hankering for a pizza or wants to rent _The Godfather._  
  
“Boss?”  
  
Gibbs kills the engine, waving his hand to draw Tony back into the rain. By the time they slide into the bar, his t-shirt’s completely soaked. The wall of smoke hits him before the heat that’s being pumped through the building’s radiators. It only takes a few seconds for the sweat to prick onto his brow.  
  
Heading silently to the long, dark-wood bar, Gibbs ignores the other patrons. He places an order with a bespectacled bartender. Tony glances around the local watering hole, noticing the solitary, grey-haired men scattered around the haphazard tables. Part of him wonders whether Gibbs feels the camaraderie here. In a far corner, the rebroadcast of a football game plays out while the commentator babbles quietly.  
  
He blinks to find Gibbs by his side, holding a matching pair of tumblers half-full with amber liquid. With a head jerk, Gibbs leads the way to an isolated table. Tony slides into the seat, gladly accepting the proffered beverage. When he takes a swig, the taste of liquid smoke and honey assaults his tongue. He coughs violently, barely able to bite back a curse.  
  
“Boss, what the hell is this?”  
  
“Bourbon. Don’t ask…just drink it.” Begrudgingly following the order, Tony swallows the drink in one gulp. Across the table, Gibbs looks amused as he works on his own glass. “Guess it’s an acquired taste.”  
  
“I’m more of a gin man,” Tony admits, slipping his fingers over the tumbler.  
  
Gibbs’ features pinch in disgust. Before Tony can explain the intricacies of the superior juniper-flavored gin, the bourbon hits his bloodstream, making his brain swim. Tony slumps back in the chair, finally feeling completely relaxed for the first time since the mission began.  
  
Concern washes over Gibbs’ face. “What happened, Tony?”  
  
“I don’t know, Boss. It’s been such a blur. The mission was going great, until I saw - " his breath hitches, "- those girls. They're just kids, for G-d's sake." Tony stares morosely at the last drops in his tumbler. “Are the girls okay?”  
  
Even though Gibbs already told him they’re fine, Tony just needs to hear it again.  
  
“Yeah, they’re all at the hospital. Tell me what happened with McGee. I know he came because of Morales.”  
  
Tony pulls in a deep breath, then releases it in a loud huff.  
  
“He just showed up today at a meeting I had with Carreras. When I saw him, I didn’t know what to do. It was either blow my cover and get him out of there or convince Carreras to bring him along until I could contact you. I’d’ve blown my cover, but I hadn’t convinced Schaller" - Gibbs' eyes narrow slightly - " to move in yet and…” Tony flattens his hands against the sticky tabletop. “Christ, I almost got McGee killed.”  
  
“He’ll be fine and so will those girls. Might not feel like it, but you did good.”  
  
When Tony stares sullenly at him, Gibbs slides over the half full tumbler.  
  
“What about Schaller?”  
  
Tony shrugs, brow furrowed. “I didn't miss my meetings with him, Boss. Made every single one. I gave him everything. Names, dates, times, locations. Everything he needed for an iron-clad case against Carreras. But he kept saying that he needed more."  
  
Following Gibbs’ gaze back to the bar, Tony watches a woman blatantly solicit a man who looks old enough to be her grandfather. He dredges the last drops from the tumbler, flinching at the smoky taste. When his stomach still burns, he isn’t sure whether it’s the bourbon or a sympathetic twinge of the fabled Gibbs’ gut.  
  
“You know, when I told him those girls are someone's daughters, he flipped out. And thinking about it now, I really wonder whether Schaller is - "  
  
“One of Carreras’ clients.”


	26. Chapter 26

  
**11:47pm –St. Boniface Medical Center – Emergency Department, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
Clad in an ill-fitting hospital gown that must’ve been stretched out by its previous inhabitant, he leans against the stiff bed, listening to the constant activity of the busy Emergency Department. He stares morosely at the IV buried in the crook of his left arm. His pale skin is a patchwork of bruises and puncture marks from a medical student’s multiple attempts to start his line.  
  
Just under the loudspeaker’s constant blares and the din of other patients, the TV over the door burbles away, a late night comedian’s undecipherable monologue. When the canned laughter starts, Tim’s eyes flick to the screen.  
  
 _Shouldn’t I be out there helping Tony and Gibbs?_  
  
A group of nurses suddenly convene on the desk just outside his room and he stretches to watch, wondering whether they gather for gossip or work. The collective giggle that erupts from the women answers his question. Tim rolls his eyes, collapsing back against the uncomfortable mattress. When his head connects with the rigid surface, he cringes at the pound that migrates into his teeth.  
  
He searches for his pillow, locating it on the floor.  
  
Reaching after it ignites a fire in his shoulder that makes him cry out. He’s too busy blinking the spots from his vision to notice the heavy-set, grey-haired nurse, watching him. She places the wayward pillow behind his head and eases him gently against the forgiving surface.  
  
“Thank you,” he breathes, allowing her to wipe the sweat from his brow.  
  
With the agony beginning to clear, Tim flicks his gaze to the off-white drop ceiling. Focusing on the pockmarks, he connects the dots to make outrageous shapes until the pain passes completely. He finds a cat, three dinosaurs, a lawn gnome and something that resembles Gibbs.  
When nothing’s left to discover, his eyes jump to the nurse’s round, concerned face.  
  
“You sure you still don’t want something for pain, Agent McGee?” she asks quietly, voice barely audible over a used car commercial.  
  
“Please, call me Tim, and I think –“ he forces a brave smile, “ - I’m okay.”  
  
“Name’s Bobbie, and it’s nice to meet you, Tim. I heard that you’ve had quite a day. You know, there’s nothing wrong with taking a little something for the pain,” she says, the hints of a Southern accent rising in the words.  
  
“I wanted to talk to the doctor first.”  
  
“Well, it might be a while before we get the MRI report back on that shoulder of yours. You might as well…doctor’s orders.”  
  
Sitting straighter in the bed, Tim nods slightly. Bobbie pulls out a syringe, and he drops his gaze to his hands. There’s a jiggle to the IV, then the drug slips into his vein, its path burning through his arm. His heartbeat slows and he feels like a veil’s pulled over his senses.  
  
Tim smiles lazily.  
  
“Feeling any better?” Bobbie asks.  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” he slurs, letting his arm fall to his side.  
  
“As soon as I hear from the radiology department, I promise that I’ll get Dr. Sorenson to go over the news with you,” she says before heading out.  
  
Settling back against his pillow, Tim realizes he still doesn’t know what Dr. Sorenson looks like. Even after all the tests that the man subjected him to, the doctor hasn’t even bothered to meet him.  
  
His eyes flick to the television screen, commercials scrolling for products that he neither wants nor needs. Another warm sensation of relaxation eases the ache from his shoulder.  
  
As he’s about to slip away, Ziva appears in the doorway, a cup of tea in her hand. Taking one look at his reclined posture and heavy-lidded eyes, she nods tightly.  
  
“So the doctor came to speak with you?” she asks, reclaiming her vinyl-covered chair.  
  
“‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,’” Tim mutters, waving his hand.  
  
“What is that, McGee?”  
  
“‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’ _The Wizard of Oz._ When they go to meet the wizard, he’s actually just a regular guy behind a curtain calling all the shots. I wonder whether that’s what Dr. Sorenson’s like. All this talk about him and we haven’t seen him yet, so does he actually exist? Or is there someone behind a curtain?” Tim blinks owlishly.  
  
Ziva’s features pinch in confusion. Even though he can feel her stare, Tim doesn’t bother to look over.  
  
The cheeseburger floating on the television screen is infinitely more interesting.  
  
“Perhaps you are spending too much time with Tony, yes?”  
  
He shrugs noncommittally, finally meeting her earnest gaze. There’s a long silence, broken only by more commercials and a patient moaning to the nurses about Dr. Sorenson’s long absence. Even though he wants to go tell the woman that there’s no one there to operate the levers, Tim just doesn’t feel like moving.  
  
“Do you wish to talk, McGee?” Ziva asks suddenly.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“What is there to talk about? I screwed up, blew Tony’s mission and got those girls killed. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”  
  
“No one told you? The girls are at the hospital in Washington. Gibbs spoke to one before we came here. They will likely be fine, but it will take time.” They listen to the angry ranting from the patient in the hallway for several long moments until she continues, “You did not cause Tony to fail. He intended to stop Carreras and he did. But why did you go?”  
  
“I hacked into the FBI and found his name on a suspect list for a murder.”  
  
“That was when you went to buy falafel for lunch, yes?” Their eyes meet and he nods slowly. “Why did you not tell us?”  
  
“I just wanted to follow the lead before I said anything. I didn’t want too many involved just in case Colvin came after us. Thought it would mean less trouble.” He sighs quietly, chin dipping to his chest. “And I didn’t know if you still had my six after the way you acted on the Dukakis case.”  
  
Ziva’s lips pull into a tight line.“You are my teammate. Even though I may not agree with you, I will always look out for you, McGee.”  
  
“Thanks. I’ve got your six too.”  
  
“Thank you. When you are better, I will take you out for falafel at that place you like.”  
  
He laughs quietly as sleep slowly claims him.  
  
“I guess while we’re being honest, I should probably tell you that I hate falafel.”  
  
“Well, that is a surprise.”  
  
\--  
  
 **Friday, October 27, 2006 – 1:02am - St. Boniface Medical Center – Emergency Department, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
Hand clasped around the paper cup of noxious coffee that he commandeered from a passing intern, Gibbs leans against the wall outside Tim’s hospital room. He scans the patients that still lurk the halls after the heavy Friday night traffic ebbed into a few stragglers desperate for their weekend fix. A chorus of snores sounds from Tim’s room, and Gibbs sighs.  
  
When he and Tony arrived, his senior agent went to ‘check’ on his teammates. It only took a few minutes until he was fast asleep.  
  
 _I’m just glad they’re all safe._  
  
He sips his drink, grimacing at the granules of instant coffee still present. When an overweight nurse lumbers past him on her way to the nurses’ station, Gibbs trails her. With a loud groan, she falls into a chair and turns to the computer, clicking rapidly on the mouse. He waits until her eyes glance up.  
  
“Can I help you?”  
  
Gibbs flicks open his badge. “Special Agent McGee. How is he?”  
  
“What a nice young man. Well, Dr. Sorenson stopped by right before you and your other agent got here, but Tim and that lovely young woman were already asleep. So she’ll be by later to discuss his status. Unfortunately, I’m not really at liberty to discuss his health with you.”  
  
He presses his lips together. “I just want to know my agent’s alright.”  
  
Nodding silently, her kind features pinch as she eyes a doctor on his way past. When he hangs a right down the hall, she turns back to her computer. After a few clicks, she leans over the counter to make sure they’re alone.  
  
“Tim’s going to be just fine. He’s got a torn rotator cuff, a nasty headache and a bunch of bruises. The shoulder’s the worst part. But after some surgery and physical therapy, he’ll heal up nicely.”  
  
Gibbs cracks a tight smile. “He getting discharged anytime soon?”  
  
“I don’t think so. Dr. Sorenson wants to keep him overnight for observation. After the day he’s had, it’s probably best to leave him be until tomorrow morning. It’s not like we need the room now.” She gestures to the hallway by Tim’s doorway. “Plus it sounds like everyone in there needs the rest.”  
  
The ringing of Gibbs’ phone cuts their conversation short. He mouths ‘thank you’ to the nurse and moves to a more secluded spot down the hallway.  
  
“Yeah, Gibbs.”  
  
 _“Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs.”_ Abby’s voice explodes out of the receiver, and he pulls it away from his ear, waiting for silence. _“Did you stop listening again? I’ll be quieter, I promise, scout’s honor…not that I ever was a scout, but still. Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs, you’ll never believe what I found.”_  
  
“Whaddya got, Abs?”  
  
 _“How’s my team?”_ He makes a face at the music thumping on the other end. _“I’ll tell you what I found when you tell me about my team. I promise, it’s good, like totally worth telling me everything that happened today. Did Tony arrest Carreras? And what happened to Timmy? Is everyone okay?”_  
  
“They’re fine. McGee hurt his shoulder, DiNozzo finally shut up and Ziva’s taking a nap. Now, whaddya got?”  
  
 _“What do you mean Timmy hurt his shoulder? What happened?”_  
  
“Look, Abs, everyone’s okay, but I need to finish the case first. We’ll be back tomorrow.”  
  
 _“I guess that’ll have to do.”_ She sighs. _“I found a bunch of calls from Schaller’s personal cell to some burner phones. They were only used once and were deactivated shortly after. Checked into Schaller’s financials and guess who he wired money to.”_  
  
“The Sand Dollar Bank?”  
  
“ _Every month for the past year_.” Her voice bears a smile.  
  
“Any headway on the fingerprint from the Morales murder?  
”  
 _“It’s connected to those in Baltimore, another one in Charleston and two more in New York state. Nothing in any other databases, but I’m still running through the open crimes one now. Bring me a suspect and I can get you a match.”_  
  
“Thanks, Abs.”  
  
 _“Look, Gibbs, I’m going to get my stuff together and head down there in a few minutes. Which hospital are you guys at?”_  
  
“Need you to stay up there.” When her hippo farts, he frowns.  
  
 _“What do you mean stay up here? Timmy’s hurt, I haven’t seen Tony in weeks and Ziva…well, she always needs a hug. I’ve already got a bag packed and I can leave as soon as my search is done.”_  
  
“I need you to find the match on that print.” He hears a zipper close on the other line. “Abs, please.”  
  
Abby’s end goes silent. Only the thud of her song’s bass line tells him she hasn’t hung up yet.  
  
 _“Aye aye, Gibbs. Lemme see what I can do.”_  
  
The line goes dead.  
  
Gibbs checks the hallway, relieved to find it empty. While he was on the phone, the nurse left her post, likely vanishing to tend to her patients. Sliding back into his spot by Tim’s room, he listens to his agents sleeping soundly inside. He pulls another swig of the coffee, screwing his face up as he heads for a trashcan to get rid of it.  
  
Despite the size of the emergency department, he doesn’t find one until he hits the waiting room. Its solitary occupant raises his bald head, obviously disturbed by Gibbs’ presence. An unseen television replays the nightly news. Just outside the doors, a steady drizzle dances in the light from the streetlamps, even though the newscaster assures that it’s already stopped.  
  
A man heading through the revolving door grabs Gibbs' attention. He has to squint to recognize Fornell. Despite his upturned collar, the FBI agent’s drenched.  
  
“Knew I was coming, Jethro?” He smiles wryly.  
  
“Figured it was about time, since I called you two hours ago.”  
  
“Yeah, I had to close out the scene. Turned out to be a little gruesome with that dead guy upstairs. Metro was thrilled to take that case. They seem to think they might get further with Carreras than we have.” Fornell laughs, wiping his forehead against his damp sleeve. “They’re already trying to get custody transferred, and Detective Ross wants to be present for DiNozzo’s debrief. But I can deal with that crap later. How’re your agents?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Fornell stares at Gibbs expectantly. When nothing else comes, he shrugs and tucks his collar back against his neck. Seeing a coffee machine in the corner, Gibbs heads over. After finding some spare change in his pocket, he slams a few buttons and the machine whirs into action.  
  
The new cup’s more disgusting than the last, but he drinks it anyway.  
  
“So what’s this about Jamie Schaller?” Fornell asks suddenly.  
  
“Dirtbag’s one of Carreras’ clients,” Gibbs replies, stifling a grimace at the next sip.  
  
“That’s a pretty big accusation, Jethro. Can you prove it?”  
  
“Abby’s got the call logs, and he wired money to Masterson’s bank account in the Caymans. Doesn’t help that he stonewalled DiNozzo’s investigation.”  
  
“You’re freaking kidding me.” It takes Fornell a long second to realize Gibbs isn’t. “I guess we’d better go wake someone up.”  
  
\--  
  
 **2:18am - St. Boniface Medical Center – Emergency Department, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
A dueling set of chainsaws wakes Tim up. Cracking his eyes open, he finds Tony and Ziva slumped on a small couch in the corner of the room. Resting her head against the back, Ziva viciously sucks in air. Tony lies with his head in her lap.  
  
Tim’s a little surprised that she hasn’t beaten Tony to death with a pillow yet.  
  
Yawning violently, Tim glances up at the television to see a red-haired man hawk a mutated sponge-dishtowel hybrid. Based on the infomercials demonstrations, it might be worth looking into…once Tim gets discharged. Just before the price is announced, the loudspeaker booms for Dr. Sorenson to meet an en route ambulance in the bay.  
  
“‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain’,” Tim slurs, leaning back.  
  
Tony perks up. _“The Wizard of Oz,_ Probster? So not impressed.”  
  
Tim almost manages a laugh before his dreams whisk him away again.


	27. Chapter 27

**3:01am – Residence of James Schaller - West End, Washington, DC –**  
  
When Gibbs locates a parking space on the isolated residential street, he barely squeezes the Charger into the spot without tapping the bumper of the car in front of him. After killing the engine, he sees Fornell shakes his head.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Did you really have to drive 90 miles an hour to get us here?”  
  
“Figured it’d be faster.”  
  
“It’s the middle of the night. Schaller isn’t going anywhere.”  
  
Gibbs smirks. “You never know.”  
  
There’s an exasperated exhale.  “Do you ever go anywhere at three AM?”  
  
“Depends.”  
  
 “Of course, you do.” Fornell scrubs his hand over his face, then gestures out the windshield. “You know you almost hit the car in front of us, right? This isn’t NCIS property, Jethro…it belongs to the FBI.”  
  
“It was either park here or walk ten blocks,” Gibbs says, already on the street.  
  
“And what if you’d hit that car?”  
  
“I’d’ve left a note.” Gibbs rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, its effect lost in the dark.  
  
Fornell leads the way down the sidewalk, past the streetlamps casting their hazy glow in the misting rain, until they reach the only Victorian house with its porch light still on.  
  
“See?” Gibbs points back to the car. “Only had to walk two blocks.”  
  
“You know we could’ve just double parked.”  
  
With a shrug, Gibbs slogs up a brick walkway, half-submerged in puddles. He miscalculates a step, growling when icy water fills his boot. By the time he climbs the porch steps, his foot’s freezing. He curses under his breath while Fornell knocks on the door.  
  
When no one comes, Fornell pounds until it evokes a dull thud and a baby’s cry inside. After the click of the dead bolt, the door opens to reveal Schaller, clutching an infant in pink pajamas. With the dim porch light highlighting his scowl, he looks even nastier in person than his personnel photo. His eyes dart between the agents. When the baby in his arms begins crying, he rocks her gently.  
  
“Agent Fornell. Agent…?”  
  
“Gibbs.”  
  
“Gibbs.” Schaller swallows hard. “What brings you here tonight?”  
  
“We need to talk about some things, Jamie,” Fornell says solemnly.  
  
“Just let me go get my wife,” he replies, gesturing at the child.  
  
“Honey? Is someone at the door?” a tired female voice calls from the top of the stairs.  
  
“Yeah, it’s about work. Can you come get Maddie?”  
  
A blonde with mussed hair descends the stairs to pluck the fussing baby from Schaller’s arms.  
  
"Would you like to come inside? I can make some coffee while you talk."  
  
Both Gibbs and Fornell shake their heads.  
  
“I need to run to the office, Trish. Don’t wait up, okay?” Schaller says quietly.  
  
“You sure? I’m already up. I can have breakfast ready when you – “  
  
“I think,” Schaller interrupts, “it’s going to be a long night.”  
  
When Maddie starts to fuss, Trish rocks her, studying her husband’s anguished features. Pulling a deliberate breath, she squeezes his shoulder with her free hand. He hugs her tightly before pressing his lips to the baby’s head. Without another word, he slides on his shoes and joins the other agents on the porch. Gibbs watches Trish whisk Maddie back up the stairs.  
  
 _Why the hell would he give that up?_  
  
After Schaller locks the door, Fornell pulls out his handcuffs. “Jamie, what happened?”  
  
There’s a long silence.  
  
“Why’d you lie about DiNozzo’s meetings?” Gibbs growls.  
  
Schaller shrugs. “I figured the situation would resolve itself.”  
  
“That what happened to Conner Colvin?”  
  
While Fornell recites his Miranda rights, Schaller stares intently at his shoes.  
  
The look in his eyes answers Gibbs’ question.  
  
\--  
  
 **3:22am - St. Boniface Medical Center – Emergency Department, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
Waking slowly, Tim thinks he hears something that sounds like music, reminding him of the Big Band era. Confused, he hazards a glance to find a pitch-black room. A bright light flashes over the ceiling tiles, then it goes dark again. The upbeat tempo of the music continues, and Tim rubs his hand over his face, focusing on the television above the door.  
  
Squinting against the haze in his vision, he watches credits from an old film scroll on the screen. He inhales deeply, catching a faint scent of burnt popcorn. The music cuts out and a raucous snore echoes. In the television’s glow, Tim can barely make out his teammates’ forms, still slouched on the couch.  
  
“For the love of G-d, Zee-vah, why didn’t you sleep through Spaceballs?”  
  
A dull thud interrupts the next snore.  
  
“That shall be the last time you wake me.”  
  
“Okay, okay, I’m done, just put that thing away,” Tony mutters, making Tim chuckle. “Hey, Probster, you awake over there?”  
  
“Yeah.” Tim cringes when Tony flicks on the overhead light. “Geez, you could’ve warned me.”  
  
Standing just under the television, Tony grins and clutches a bag of microwave popcorn. “Yeah, but there’s no fun in that. How’re you feeling, McGoober?”  
  
“I’m good…it’s nice to still be…” Tim falters as he swallows hard, “…alive. How are you guys?”  
  
Tony shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, nodding enthusiastically. Ziva rolls her eyes, stretching out to claim the entire sofa.  
  
“We are...” she yawns voraciously. “ I am fine…though Tony shall not be much longer. It is nice that you are safe, McGee...” Her voice trails off into an incoherent mumble as she falls back asleep.  
  
“Me too,” Tim agrees.  
  
Tony swallows his snack with a grin. “Guess I lost my seat.”  
  
Collapsing into a small chair by the hospital bed, Tony turns his attention to the television. Pressing his lips together, Tim studies his face. With a collection of bruises in various stages of healing and a carefully maintained beard, the man barely resembles his senior field agent.  
  
But when Tony turns to offer him the bag of popcorn, Tim smiles at his friend.  
  
“So what are we watching?”  
  
 _“Bringing up Baby._ 1938\. Cary Grant, and the beautiful Katharine Hepburn. ‘When a man’s wrestling a leopard in the middle of a pond, he’s in no position to run.” Tony stops when Tim shakes his head. “Come on, McReader, you have to have seen at least one movie.”  
  
“I saw _The Wizard of Oz.”_  
  
Tony laughs heartily. “That doesn’t count. Everyone’s seen that.”  
  
“Well, what about _Star Wars?”_ The look in Tony’s eyes tells Tim isn’t enough either. “How about – “  
  
 “Your movie education starts now, Probie.” Tony smirks.  “Stick with me. I might just teach you a thing or two.”  
  
\--  
  
 **4:09am - St. Boniface Medical Center – Emergency Department, Baltimore, MD –**  
  
“Help me get this straight…the leopard’s name is Baby? So who’s the woman?” Tim asks, eyes still riveted to the television screen.  
  
The soft headslap makes him flinch.  
  
“How many times do we have to go over this?” Tony exhales exasperatedly, running his hand over his face. “Baby’s the leopard. The woman’s name is Susan Vance, and she’s played by Katharine Hepburn. This movie shouldn’t be that hard to understand.”  
  
“Okay, okay, I think I got it now.”  
  
With an agitated eye roll, Tony turns back to the screen and Tim reaches after the soda on his side table. Running his hand over the cool can, he tries to remember how many times he asked that question since the movie started. He lost count after six. Sighing quietly, he swirls his drink inside its container.  
  
He’s so desperate to talk about everything. The cartel. Carreras. The girls. Tony’s undercover adventure. Ksenia. His near death experience.  
  
He just needs to talk about it all.  
  
But every time he tries to say the words, he can only ask about Baby’s true identity.  
  
“Colvin expects me to talk to Carreras tomorrow,” Tony announces suddenly.  
  
Tim’s eyes widen. “What?”  
  
“Yeah. Apparently he won’t talk to the FBI .” Tony’s mouth pulls into a tighter line. “Colvin seems to think there’s something I can do that they can’t.”  
  
“Do you think so too?”  
  
Tony lets out a humorless laugh. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? Gibbs thinks there are more girls out there. If there’s a chance that I can get Carreras to talk, I need to take it.”  
  
A loud knock on the door interrupts their conversation. Seconds later, it cracks open to reveal a dark-haired woman wearing a white coat over her green scrubs. While she enters, Tony perks up in his seat, discreetly checking out her voluptuous frame.  
  
“I’m glad to see you’re finally awake, Special Agent McGee.”  
  
“Call me Tim.”  
  
When she shoots him an attractive smile, he extends his hand to her, forgetting about his injured shoulder. Suddenly, the edges of his vision grey and his muscles relax. Darkness zooms in on him.  
  
“You back with us now, Tim?” a female voice asks.  
  
His mouth is dry and his head hurts. “Yeah…what happened?”  
  
“You passed out again. You’re due for another dose of pain medication, is that okay?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
There’s a slight burn in his arm and his senses grow hazy again. Relaxing against the bed, Tim closes his eyes. He listens to Tony and the woman talking.  
  
“How bad is it, doctor?”  
  
Tim’s eyes flutter open. “Doctor?”  
  
“That would be me.” The brunette gives a smile. “Annika Sorenson, nice to finally meet you.”  
  
“Ah, it’s a woman behind the curtain,” Tim slurs.  
  
Tony raises his eyebrows at Ziva.  
  
“Do not ask me,” she says.  
  
Doctor Sorenson genuinely laughs. “Well, I might not have a heart, brain or courage for you…but I’ve got a nice sling with a surgery referral that’ll help your shoulder.” She taps her pen against the clipboard in her hands. “Sign these discharge forms when you’re ready and you can go home.”  
  
She hands him a pile of papers and Tim squints at the squiggled mass of words on them. Too tired to be bothered, he hugs the clipboard to his chest.  
  
“So he’s fine?” Tony asks.  
  
“Yeah, torn right rotator cuff, bumps, bruises and dehydration. A lot of those injuries look worse than they actually are, but his shoulder will be an issue. I’m going to give him a referral for a surgical consultation. He’s probably looking at a procedure to repair the tear and stabilize the joint. Couple of months in physical therapy and he should be back to work.”  
  
“Thanks. We are glad to hear it,” Ziva says.  
  
“You’re welcome.” There’s a short pause. “Rumor around the ED is that you guys took on the Angel Caido, is that true?” Tony nods. “Then consider yourselves lucky. I’ve had some other patients that have crossed paths with them before.”  
  
“Oh yeah. What happened to them?” Tony asks.  
  
“You’re the only two that I’ve seen live,” she replies solemnly.  
  
Tim grins lazily as their eyes meet. the way the fluorescent light rings her hair mesmerizes him.  
  
“Annika, you’re beautiful. Can I take you out for coffee sometime?”  
  
Tim falls asleep before she can response.


	28. Chapter 28

**10:01am – On 295N, Heading Towards Washington, DC –**  
  
Pressing the gas pedal deeper, Tony maneuvers the Charger around a tractor trailer on the rain-soaked highway. With the looming clouds threatening another storm, he tries to beat it back to the Navy Yard. When the radio emits a garbled traffic report, Ziva leans forward to change the station to one playing a hip hop song. Shifting back in the seat, she stares at the cars whizzing past.  
  
Tony sighs, thankful for the company who understands the need to decompress after a mission. If Tim were conscious, they would be rehashing the ordeal…again. Mercifully, another dose of meds on the way out of the ED gave Tim another drug-induced nap in the back seat.  
Glancing in the rearview, Tony checks on his partner’s sleeping form. When Tim moves his head away from the window with a snore, Tony flinches at the bruises on the younger man’s cheek.  
  
Ziva snaps her fingers, reminding Tony to watch the road. Up in the distance, the familiar monuments of Washington begin to break through the fog, a welcome sight to the previous night’s events.  
  
Tony didn’t think he and Tim would live to see them again.  
  
“Tony, you would like to speak, yes?” Ziva lets the silence stretch for a few minutes. “I will listen.”  
  
“You sorta have to, Zee-vah. You’re in a moving car, it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Why didn’t we head back with Gibbs anyway?”  
  
“I offered to drive back.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I'd like to get back to Washington alive.” He laughs. “But why did Gibbs and Fornell head back in the middle of the night?”  
  
She turns her attention to Tony and shrugs. “He only said that he needed to return early.”  
  
Tony nods, watching the Washington Monument and Pentagon grow more distinct. Taking the exit for the Navy Yard, he navigates the soggy back streets. When he hits a red light, Ziva grips his arm.  
  
“You are okay, yes?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine.”  
  
With a nod, she turns to study the pedestrians on the sidewalk. When the light changes, he takes the car up the block, feeling the knots creep into his stomach as the NCIS building draws closer.  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before I’ll need to interview Carreras._  
  
By the time he hits the garage, Tony begins to feel nauseous. He debates about driving past the entrance and heading somewhere to take his teammates out to breakfast. Knowing Gibbs wouldn’t approve of a detour, Tony turns the Charger into the garage and to its specified spot. After he kills the engine, he stares at the wheel intensely until Ziva touches his shoulder. Forcing a tight smile, he hands her the keys.  
  
“Mind signing it back in? Security won’t take the keys without creds and mine are at my cover’s apartment.” He waits a beat before adding : “No joy rides.”  
  
“You do not need help?” she asks, pointing over her shoulder.  
  
“Nah, I think I can handle a drugged Probie all by myself.”  
  
His tense grin widens and Ziva nods slowly. After she climbs out of the car, she slams the door so hard that Tim yelps loudly. Hand against his head, he blinks owlishly as his unfocused eyes dart around.  
  
“Where – where are we?”  
  
“Morning, McSleeping Beauty.” Tony turns in the seat to grin at Tim. “We’re back at NCIS. Time to go.”  
  
Scrambling out of the car, Tony pauses by the back door. With his right arm in his sling, Tim struggles to reach the handle with his left. When the younger man winces at the effort, Tony opens the door for him and pulls him out. Unsteady on his feet, Tim’s expression is more confused than usual as he watches Tony retrieve his discharge instructions from the floor.  
  
They head to the elevator, Tony keeping Tim on course.  
  
“Tony, I thought I was going home.”  
  
“You will…eventually. We just have a little detour. Abby’s going to keep you company until I’m done with Carreras. Then you’re bunking at my place for a while.”  
  
Tim grimaces.  
  
“Come on, Probie, we both know I have a better movie collection than you.”  
  
“No, it’s not that.” Tim bites his lip. “It’s just….you’re still going to talk to Carreras?”  
  
There’s a long silence, broken only the elevator's arrival.  
  
“If I need to.”  
  
“Why not just let the FBI handle it?”  
  
Herding Tim into the car, Tony snorts. Even though he asked himself the same question countless time, he just can’t let the FBI flub another investigation when there are still more girls to be found.  
  
Finally seeing Carreras behind bars won’t hurt either…  
  
When Tony glances at the way Tim leans against the wall, he decided not to burden his partner with his reasons. Instead, he reaches into his pocket for what should be a welcome distraction. Staring at the phone number scrawled on a prescription pad, Tony hits the emergency button.  
  
The elevator car jerks to a stop, the overhead lights dropping to back-up power.  
  
“Tony, what’s going on?”  
  
“So Dr. Sorenson?”  
  
Tim blinks, brow furrowed. “What? Where’d that come from?”  
  
“She was pretty hot, huh?” Tony grins, waggling his eyebrows at the younger man.  
  
“Um, uh, maybe? I really don’t remember.” When Tim’s cheeks flush, Tony laughs. “Okay, okay, fine, I thought she was cute. Are you happy now? Can we just drop it?”  
  
“Actually we all know….even her.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yeah, you told her.”  
  
Covering his eyes with his hand, Tim moans quietly. “I did, didn’t I?”  
  
Tony lets him squirm for a moment. “Well, the feeling’s apparently mutual. She told me to give you her number. ” He passes Tim the paper “Said to call her before ten since her shift starts at eleven.”  
  
“Thanks,” Tim replies, pocketing the number.  
  
Nodding, Tony presses the emergency button and the elevator groans to life. When the doors open, a black and white blob hurdles inside. An arm grabs Tony around the neck, yanking him against a soft body. The scent of strawberries tickles his nose.  
  
“Timmy! Tony! You’re both okay!” Abby yells, pulling the agents into a tighter bear hug.  
  
Tony coughs, surprised by the amount of pressure she puts on his throat.  
  
“Abby, my arm,” Tim whines and she lets him go to hug Tony tighter.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re back.”  
  
Just when the black spots begin to dot his vision, she releases her death grip on Tony and sets her sight on Tim. When she tackles him into a hug, Tim’s features silently contort in pain and Tony cringes in sympathy.  
  
“Timmy! We were so worried!”  
  
“Hey, Abs.” Tony sticks his foot in the doors when they start to close.  
  
“Yeah?” She releases Tim and he sags against the wall, forehead slick with sweat. “Are you okay Timmy?”  
  
He backs away, left hand protectively on his shoulder. “Oh yeah, I’m great.”  
  
“Good. I got the futon all set up for you since you’re supposed to rest today, and I picked up a couple DeCaf-Pows since you can’t have caffeine with your meds. If you get bored, I’ve got...“  
  
“Have fun, Probie.” Tony waves to them as he scrambles off the elevator.  
  
The doors glide closed to hide Tim’s wide eyes as Abby regales him with their day’s itinerary. Fairly certain that Tim’ll have more fun than him, Tony lopes to the bullpen to grab his suit so he can head to the Hoover building. Arriving at his desk, he’s surprised that nothing’s changed. Everything’s exactly as he left it…even Gibbs’ omnipresent coffee cup.  
  
He checks underneath his keyboard, comforted to find his spitball straw still there.  
  
 _I told McGee he’d never find it._  
  
Wistful smile on his lips, Tony retrieves his spare suit from his locker. His fingers touch the expensive fabric as he sinks into his desk chair. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he wonders whether the past few weeks were actually a dream. The stubble on his chin is a reminder that reality can often be worse than any nightmares. With a sigh, he heads to the bathroom to change.  
  
Once he’s back in the familiar fabric, Tony feels more like himself…even if the face in the mirror looks nothing like him. His fingers carefully examine the bruises on his right jaw from a scuffle and the long gash on his forehead from the fight at the warehouse. Glowering, he peels off the butterfly stitches and drops them to the floor. Lips pulling into a sneer, Tony turns away from his reflection.  
  
Straightening his lapel, he buttons his coat. Without another look in the mirror, he heads to the bullpen.  
  
Too distracted by his thoughts, Tony doesn’t notice Gibbs until he reaches his desk.  
  
“Something on your mind, DiNozzo?”  
  
“Oh. Hey, boss. Just getting ready to interview Carreras like Colvin asked.”  
  
“Already took care of it.”  
  
Cocking his head, Tony approaches his boss. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Convinced him to tell us where the rest of the girls are.” Gibbs smirks. “Turns out the dirtbag doesn’t want to die in a Russian gulag.”  
  
“They don’t still have those…do they?” The way Gibbs’ grin broadens tells Tony that Carreras isn’t up to date on his current affairs. “How many more girls were there?”  
  
“Two more groups in Washington, three in Baltimore and a shipment en route. Pretty big enterprise… ” Gibbs trails off, pointing to the plasma where a serious-faced Colvin speaks into a microphone on a newscast.  
  
“How many, boss?”  
  
“Thirty nine, plus twelve on their way.”  
  
Tony inhales deeply, starting at the bouncy camera footage of Colvin’s newscast until the image switches to Carreras’ mug shot.  
  
“Where are they now?”  
  
“Buncha different hospitals until ICE can get them all figured out.”  
  
“And Carreras?”  
  
“Going away for a long time.”  
  
“Too bad it’s on American soil.”  
  
Gibbs’ laugh turns into a growl when Colvin’s smug face re-appears on the screen. With a click of the remote, he turns off the program and turns back to his work. Nodding, Tony starts to move to his desk.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“Uh, my reports, boss.”  
  
“They can wait.”  
  
“But what about the debrief?”  
  
“Fornell’ll meet you here at 0800 Monday.” When Tony starts to protest, Gibbs stares at him intensely. “Go home and keep an eye on McGee in the meantime.”  
  
Tony’s swift nod acknowledges his order, and he stops at Tim’s desk to grab his overnight bag. With one last glance around the bullpen, he heads to rescue the younger man from Abby’s day of fun.  
  
\--  
  
 **11:30am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**  
  
With a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a Caf-Pow in the other, Gibbs ducks off the elevator. Walking in time with the thump of the music, he heads into the lab to find Abby at her bench. With her back to him, she’s engrossed in the fingerprints scrolling across the monitor. When he stumbles, he glances down to find what appears to be a beanbag toss. Perplexed, he eyes a wall of balloons with a few darts buried in the wood underneath.  
  
“Abs?”  
  
“It’s my carnival.” He cocks his eyebrow. “Since I wasn’t allowed to come to Baltimore, I had to keep my mind busy. What else was I supposed to do, Gibbs? I figured McGee and I could play some games while I kept an eye on him. You know, I’d just started kicking his butt at beanbags when Tony came. He kept saying that sling messed up his center of gravity, but I think he might not be very good.”  
  
Gibbs nods and places the Caf-Pow on the lab bench to pick up a dart. After turning it over in his hand, he hurls it at the balloon wall, popping two. Attention pulled from the computer, Abby grins broadly.  
  
“Whoa, that’s awesome.”  
  
He smirks. “So what’d I win?”  
  
Holding one finger up, she darts to her inner office and grabs an object from the desk. When she comes back, she places it on the lab bench. It’s an upside down Caf-Pow cup with a goth figurine glued on top. His brow furrows while she frames it with her hands.  
  
“It’s a trophy, Gibbs.”  
  
He takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. “I can see that.”  
  
Her lower lip juts out. “Yeah, Tony didn’t want it either. McGee tried to take it, but he didn’t earn it. Guess you’ll have to settle for second place.”  
  
“Whaddya got?”  
  
“Pedro Morales’ murderer.” Her grin exposes Caf-Pow red teeth. “Well, I don’t have him here. The Baltimore Police Department have him in custody at the University of Maryland Medical Center...if the FBI hasn’t arrested him yet.”  
  
A few clicks of her mouse bring up a picture of a hard-faced Hispanic man with a close-cropped beard. On the side of his neck is the black star of the Angel Caido. Gibbs instantly recognizes him as one of the bleeding men at the raid in Baltimore.  
  
“Meet Hector Roberto Delgado, Gibbs. His partial was on the clip of the gun from Morales’ murder. When I got a sample of the blood from Timmy’s clothes, I ran it alongside the one from Morales’. Both type A+, probably from him.” She jabs her finger at the picture. “While there isn’t enough for a DNA match, there’s enough evidence to prove that he killed Morales. Plus he was with Timmy, so…”  
  
“Good work,” he says, pushing the Caf-Pow towards her.  
  
“But that’s not it. I’m running his prints through the open crime database for the Mid-Atlantic. So far, I’ve gotten hits on ten murders.” Abby grins and she opens up an active fingerprint search on the monitor.  
  
“What about that one in Baltimore that matched Conner Colvin’s description?”  
  
She gestures to the opposite side of the lab, somewhere between the fridge and her office. “I just got the DNA sample from Metro last night. I’m still waiting on his sample from the FBI so I can confirm his identity. Though based on the bone structure of the corpse and Conner Colvin’s personnel photo, I’m fairly sure that they’re one in the same. That and DNA is all we really have to go on. The murderer took his fingers and smashed up his teeth so we couldn’t do a formal ID through conventional methods.  Baltimore won’t even let Colvin see him until we confirm that it’s him.”  
  
Gibbs flinches when he thinks of the fate Tony and Tim narrowly escaped. “That bad?”  
  
“Torture and a couple weeks in a ditch are never good for anyone.”  
  
Abby sighs, minimizing her search when a program in the background flashes. Taking a sip of his coffee, Gibbs nods slowly. He waits in the uneasy silence, feeling the thump of her music, while she works through something on screen. Apparently not happy with the results, she restarts the search. Grinning, she picks up a black beanbag off the lab bench to hurl it into the bin that rests several feet away.  
  
Smile creeping onto his face, Gibbs selects one from the pile. Their beanbags hurl across the lab, finally ending with a score of three for her and five for him. She pushes her makeshift trophy at him.  
  
“You got anything on the girl down with Ducky?” he asks instead of taking it.  
  
“Yelena Nikolayova Korovina? Nothing…yet. Only thing I could find on that last name was a type of gun used by the Red Army in World War Two.  I really doubt that she’s related to the family that designed it. But I’ve got my people looking into it.”  
  
He tilts his head. “Your people?”  
  
“Of course I have people, Gibbs. Why wouldn’t I have people?” She scowls at him for a second until she giggles. “But seriously, one of the girls that I graduated with is doing a post-doc at the Maritime State University in Vladivostok. I called her to see if she wouldn’t mind helping out.” Gibbs looks at her expectantly. “Alice said she’d let me know as soon as she had something.”  
  
“Thanks, Abs.” He kisses her cheek and starts out of the lab.  
  
“Gibbs.” She waits until he returns to simply ask : “Why?”  
  
“Because Yelena deserves to go home.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Thursday November 2, 2006 - 4:51pm - St. Catherine’s Hospital – Capitol Hill, Washington, DC –**  
  
“Come on, Probster, time to wake up. We’re here."  
  
Peeling his face off the passenger window of Tony’s Mustang, Tim stares blankly at the car’s dashboard. He doesn’t know where "here" is; the last thing he remembers is the interior of the NCIS garage. Stifling a yawn, he tries to push the exhaustion from his muddled brain. After a week crashing on Tony’s sofa, he just wants a night in his own bed. Even though both Gibbs and the FBI say it’s safer until the cartel case is over, Tim won’t last much longer at his friend’s home.  
  
 _I don’t know why Tony stays up so late every night._  
  
Tim glances out the window, frowning at the white bricks of an unfamiliar building. When he notices people in blue scrubs sneaking a cigarette, his brow knits in confusion. He just met with an orthopedic surgeon this morning…there’s no way he should be back again already.  
  
As he turns to ask Tony what’s going on, Tim’s right shoulder connects against the door. Stars swarm into his vision and he writhes in his seat. Fighting to keep lunch down, he leans forward to bury his face in his backpack.  
  
The stench of his dirty laundry lurches his stomach again, and he dry-heaves.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, Probie, not in the car. I just had it detailed,” Tony yelps, jumping out of the vehicle.  
  
When the door slams, Tim’s stomach rolls again. He doesn’t notice that his door is open until the brisk November air hits his flushed skin. He sucks in a deep breath.  
  
Tony crouches to look at Tim’s face.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine.”  
  
“You don’t look fine.”  
  
Tim doesn’t have the strength to force a brave smile. When the nausea finally passes, he props himself up in the seat, checking down the block in both directions. None of the cross streets nor the long building right in front of them look familiar. He notices a sign with the crucifix and logo for St. Catherine’s Hospital, already illuminated for dusk.  
  
His eyes flick to Tony’s concerned face.  
  
“We aren’t in Silver Spring.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  
  
“I thought we were going to my place to get my computer.”  
  
“We are.“ Tony shrugs. “I just had to take a short detour. So let’s go?”  
  
Tim can’t manage a purchase point to get out of the car so he takes Tony’s extended hand. With his right arm in an immobilization sling and a looming surgery, his teammates have gone out of their way to be overly nice to him. While he appreciated it at first, their slowly takes its toll.  
  
“Thanks,” he mumbles nonetheless.  
  
“You’re welcome.” They approach the entrance in silence. "Say, Probie, can you even play video games with one arm?”  
  
Tim’s lips pull into a small frown that Tony doesn’t see. They pass through a cigarette smoke cloud that surrounds a group of patients in hospital gowns. By the time they enter the pristine foyer, Tim’s lungs burn. In the space that resembles an upscale hotel lobby, the few shabbily dressed people dozing on the couches look out of place. Based on the disinterested security guard in the corner, this must be commonplace.  
  
When Tim stops to look around, Tony grabs his arm, dragging him towards the elevators.  
  
“Already know where we’re going.” He hits the call button. “You sure you’re okay?”  
  
“Look, Tony, we’ve been over this. I’m fine. For the love of G-d, just stop asking me,” Tim snaps.  
  
Tony nods unconvinced, leading the way into the elevator when it arrives.  
  
As the doors slide closed, Tim looks at his reflection in the mirrored wall for the first time in days. The dark circles under his eyes and the bruises on the right side of his face are a sickly purple under the fluorescent lights. Throw in the sling, and Tim finally understands why Tony constantly asks how he feels.  
  
The car lurches under his feet and he meets Tony’s gaze in the mirror.  
  
Unable to hold it, Tim looks away to study the ceiling tiles. Still feeling his friend’s eyes on him, he pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
“McGee, are you sure you’re –“  
  
“No, Tony, I’m not.” Tim inhales sharply. “I’m not okay. Are you happy now?”  
  
Tony hits the emergency stop button and the elevator groans to a halt. When the back-up lights flicker on, a quiet alarm begins to sound.  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“What’d you expect me to say? My shoulder’s killing me. I can’t sleep because I’m terrified the cartel’s going to kill us…and I’m pretty sure that my career might be over. Is that what you want to hear?”  
  
Tony shifts his weight. “Well, if that’s what you’re worried about…”  
  
“That’s all I do anymore. Worry.” Licking his lips, Tim chuckles humorlessly. “What if it doesn’t get better?”  
  
“It will, but it takes a while. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after my first undercover assignment.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah, I ended up on sleeping pills until I could handle being home again. I took a long vacation to clear my head, almost left the force,” Tony admits, leaning against the wall. “Why didn’t you go on leave?”  
  
Tim lets out a broken sigh. “My doctor actually recommended it, but I just can’t. I can’t sit at home waiting for the cartel to come and get me. Gibbs didn’t want me alone either…said I should be around you and Ziva.” Laughing sorrowfully, he stares at the floor. “I can’t even protect myself.”  
  
The silence stretches as the alarm drones on, grating Tim’s already frayed nerves.  
  
“I doubt the cartel’s coming to get you, Tim. When I talked to my old partner last week, he told me that there’s a huge turf war to find Carreras’ successor. In fact, whoever takes over will probably send us a fruit basket…I call the pears.” When he cracks a grin, Tim doesn’t bother to match it. “Maybe you should take a vacation after things settle down? It’ll do you some good. I’m thinking about hitting the beach after the trial. I haven’t been to the Bahamas in years.”  
  
“Maybe I’ll go see my mom in Dallas after my shoulder surgery. She remarried a few months ago and I haven’t met my – “Tim cringes at the word “ – step-dad yet.”  
  
“I bet you’ll have a great time. Life can’t stop because of this.” There’s a short pause as a sly smile creeps onto Tony’s face. “You called Annika yet?”  
  
Tim’s cheeks flush at the mention of her name. Of course, he already heard from he. After he got her number, Tony pestered Tim until he called her. Her calm voice and throaty laugh enthralled him so much that they’ve spoken every day since he left Baltimore.  
  
“Yeah, she’s coming down this weekend.”  
  
“Good. I’m going bowling with Abby and the nuns on Saturday –“ Tony leers at him “- so you’ll have the place to yourself for a couple hours. Just don’t do anything on my couch, got it?”  
  
Blush deepening, Tim shifts his weight. While he tries to come up with a reply, a small call box on the elevator wall lights up and a quiet voice echoes from its tinny speaker.  
  
 _“Sirs, please remain calm. Help will be here soon.”_  
  
Raising his eyebrows, Tony presses the button next to the speaker. “Thanks, but we are calm.”  
  
 _“I know…I know, help will be here shortly. Just try your best to remain – “_ Rolling his eyes, Tony releases the emergency switch, and the elevator groans to life. _“Oh, it seems the technical malfunction has been resolved. Are you both okay?”_  
  
“We’re fine, thanks,” Tony says, shaking his head as the elevator climbs to its original destination.  
  
The doors slide open to reveal a flurry of activity. Tony’s firm hand on his good shoulder propels Tim through the frustrated looking group waiting for the elevator. Squinting against the bright overhead lights, Tim watches the individual patient rooms pass them by.  
  
“Where are we going?” he asks.  
  
Instead of answering, Tony pulls him to a stop. Seated in an uncomfortable-looking chair, a redhead in a Metro uniform grins up at them.  
“Hi Tony, how are you?” she greets, rising from her seat.  
  
“Great. How’ve you been, Hailey?” Tony asks.  
  
“Just fine. So this is him?” She gestures towards Tim.  
  
Grinning broadly, Tony nods. “In the flesh. Hailey Johnson, meet Tim McGee.”  
  
“Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you…sorta,” she says, extending her right hand to gently touch Tim’s in the sling.  
  
“Likewise, I think.” He turns to face Tony. “What’s going on?”  
  
Hailey raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell him?”  
  
“Nah, figured he could use a surprise after the week we’ve had.”  
  
Before Tim can speak, Hailey takes his left hand and leads him through the doorway. Dying sunlight creeps through the window, making the room almost too dark to discern the furniture here. He blinks slowly, not recognizing the thin figure tucked into the bed. Someone flicks on the overhead light, and he sees sallow cheeks under a mop of blonde hair.  
  
His heart clenches.  
  
 _Ksenia._  
  
“Maggee Teem!” she wails, ripping the IV out of her arm as she scrambles out of the bed.  
  
When she reaches him, she hugs Tim hard enough to force the air out of his lungs. He wraps his left hand around her shoulders. Her tears work their way through his shirt. All the while, she excitedly murmurs words that he doesn’t understand.  
  
“So this is the Maggee she keeps talking about?” a female voice asks.  
  
He glances around, locating a heavyset woman in one of the room’s chairs.  
  
“Tim McGee,” he corrects.  
  
“Diane Wilson, social services.” She rakes her hand through her unkempt hair. “Ksenia’s talked non-stop about you since I got here a few days ago…kept saying that she needed to know you were okay. She just wouldn’t believe me or that boss of yours until she saw you in person.”  
  
“See?” Tim shakes Ksenia’s shoulder until she looks up. “I’m fine and so are you.”  
  
Her body quakes as she begins to speak animatedly again. When she stops, Tim glances to Diane.  
  
“She said that she’s glad you’re alive and how happy she is that you saved her.” Pressing his lips together, Tim listens to Ksenia’s newest, incomprehensible tirade. “You and your friend saved a lot of her friends last week. If it weren’t for you, she’d never see her family again. She says thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Tim murmurs, pulling her into another hug.  
  
Blinking a tear away, he meet Tony's gaze.  
  
 _Thank you,_ he mouths.  
  
“You’re welcome too, Probster.”


	30. Epilogue

**Wednesday, January 17, 2007 – 9:32am – Docks – Vladivostok, Primorksy Krai, Russia –**  
  
Pulling his rucksack closer to his body, Gibbs slides through the throng of laborers on the city’s docks. Even though the sun’s first rays are only beginning to burn away the heavy fog, the thriving port already pulsates with activity. Watching a group of men haul a shipping crate down the gangplank of a massive freighter, Gibbs listens to the murmured conversations around him.  
  
All he can discern are traces of a language that grew stale from underuse.  
  
Heading further up the dock, he gags at the reek of putrid fish that wafts from another vessel. Somewhere nearby he hears a muttered curse, and he smirks. There are some words that he’ll never forget. He weaves his way through the crowd, heading toward skyscrapers that reflect the sunlight like tiny jewels…beacons in the winter’s long nights.  
  
He yawns voraciously, desperate for a cup of coffee.  
  
 _I’d even drink that shit they brew at work._  
  
Despite taking every mode of transportation possible for his trip here, not one of them included refreshments. He still considers himself lucky that he had a chance to hit the head before his cargo plane left San Diego after his jaunt from Dover. The last leg, a chartered boat out of Yokosuka, left him exhausted and ravenous. As if on cue, his stomach growls loudly and he reaches into his pack. His fingers graze an unfamiliar wrapper, and he wonders when beef jerky started coming in cellophane.  
  
Pulling out a package of Nutter Butters, he shakes his head. Even though he tried to keep the news of his Russian excursion quiet, it appears that his trip wasn’t so secret.  
  
He stares at the red packaging and wonders how they’re faring without him.  
  
 _Anything has to be better than before._  
  
After Tim and Tony’s run in with the Angel Caido cartel, Gibbs could tell that the junior agent didn’t handle the fallout well. Long after the bruises faded and the surgery wounds healed, he still turned up at work with heavy bags under his eyes. He grew edgier, always glancing over his shoulder as though he were afraid someone would be coming for him. Gibbs originally thought time was the cure to Tim’s mounting paranoia.  
  
But when the younger man took to bunking under his desk, Gibbs took Tim to his agency-mandated therapy sessions. Once he started talking, he just couldn’t stop. It took some months and countless nights in Gibbs’ basement with several bottles of bourbon to get Tim cleared for field duty.  
  
While Tim nearly unraveled after the ordeal, Gibbs still couldn’t tell whether it actually bothered Tony. Brave-faced and stoic, the senior agent sat next to Tim every day at Enrico Carreras’ trial. The only time he showed any emotion was the night they went out to celebrate the guilty verdict that sent the dealer to prison for life. Gibbs remembers the look of relief in Tony’s eyes.  
  
The case that haunted him since Baltimore was finally closed and he could move on.  
  
Merely days after the verdict, Tony was back to his old tricks : pranks, movies and women. But when he began to come in every day smelling of the same perfume, Gibbs suspected that he might have found a serious girlfriend. Unlike Tim who talked about Annika daily, Tony had yet to mention his significant other in conversation.  
  
 _We’ll just see how long that lasts._  
  
Gibbs smiles wryly. Heading up the cement walkway onto terra firma that takes him to an expansive parking lot. Inhaling deeply, he catches the scent of asphalt and exhaust. It’s a welcome change to the reek of sea water and rain that accompanied his two day journey out of Washington. He blinks slowly, surprised to see the street lamps still burning mid-morning. Their waxy light barely breaches the fog as the weak sun struggles to brighten the day.  
  
His stomach growls again and he eats one of the Nutter Butters. Munching on the bone-dry, sticky pieces of cardboard, he fails to understand why Tim is so enamored with the treats. Struggling to swallow the mouthful, he slides the rest of them back into his bag. Maybe he’ll eat them later…if he can’t find a homeless person to foist them on.  
  
Pressing his lips together, Gibbs glances around the lot full of boxy Soviet cars and wonders whether Abby’s friend forgot him. Just as a few snowflakes tumble from the sky, a tiny, red Lada whips into the lot on two wheels. The rattle of its engine roars as it grows closer.  
  
He squints against the headlights, watching a tall blonde scramble out. When she gives him a wave, he jogs towards her. Her nose scrunches as she studies his face.  
  
“Special Agent Gibbs?”  
  
“Yeah.” He flashes his badge. “Alice Marshall?”  
  
“That’d be me.” She wipes a snowflake from her forehead, laughing when her fingers touch a set of glasses. “So that’s where they were!”  
  
Gibbs raises his eyebrows, apprising her lanky frame and frizzy hair. Even though she looks every bit of a scatter-brained scientist, she’s a lot less goth than he had expected. He glances inside the car, surprised when there’s no dog collar in the mountain of take-out containers, purses and scientific journals that inhabit the backseat.  
  
He doesn't fail to notice the twin coffees in the cup holders.  
  
“So how was the trip?” she asks.  
  
“Not bad,” he says, eying the car when it stalls briefly.  
  
With an apologetic smile, Alice slams her fist on the hood, and it returns to its anxious grinding. “This is Soviet-era craftsmanship at its finest. Guy that I bought it from said not to turn it off in the winter or the gas’ll freeze. I’ve been too afraid to try it. Ready to head out?”  
  
Gibbs exhales quietly, his breath a wispy puff of steam. The middle of January seems as good a time as any for a road trip to the heart of Siberia. Even though the newscasters swear that Russia’s experiencing a mild winter, it’s still much colder than Washington.  
  
With a shrug, Gibbs slides into the ancient Lada, and the stale air from the heater slams into his face. Once Alice jimmies her door shut, she puts the car into gear and passes him one of the paper cups. With a shake and a groan, the sedan jerks its way onto the road. Gibbs takes a sip of his drink, suppressing a gag as a noxious taste hits his tongue.  
  
 _This must be where NCIS imports their coffee from._  
  
“So it’s okay then?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s perfect,” he lies.  
  
Depressing concrete buildings lurch past. The tiny Lada shudders its way towards the heart of Vladivostok until Alice takes the exit for the highway. Gibbs grips the door handle as the engine struggles to reach minimum speed. They ride in silence, the other cars whizzing past them.  
  
The city melts into lazy suburbs and eventually blends into rolling farmland, buried in a deep blanket of snow. Occasionally, a farmhouse breaks the monotonous scenery.  
  
When the last radio station dissolves into static, Alice switches the console off. Scrunching her face into a frown, she wavers before attempting conversation with Gibbs.  
  
“So how do you know Abby?”  
  
“I’m her boss.” When she glances over expectantly, he sighs. “And you?”  
  
“Did my master’s with her in Georgia. Same lab, different program. While you might not believe it, our research was quite similar.”  
  
Gibbs nods disinterestedly. “You don’t say…”  
  
“Oh yeah, we used to use a local estuary for field work. She staged her own crime scenes with chicken cutlets to see how the water and different conditions would impact her ability to gather evidence. It was like the Perdue Body Farm. Different kinda girl. I was surprised when she asked me for help.” There’s a long pause. “Mind telling me about that?”  
  
“Not much to tell. Found a murdered girl…traced her back here.” He gestures out the window. “So where are we headed?”  
  
“Amar province, little town outside Zeya. Her family relocated there about six months back. I spoke to one of her brothers that still lives in their hometown. He said her parents thought she might’ve gone there for work. But they hadn’t heard from her in about two years.”  
  
“Runaway?”  
  
“Seems that way. Youngest girl with seven older brothers.”  
  
Alice sighs, flipping on the wipers as the snow begins to fall faster.  
  
“Why’d you decide to help?”  
  
“I guess I needed a little excitement to survive the winter. There isn’t much else to do around here other than drink. To be honest, Russian television really sucks.”  
  
“Yeah, it used to when I was here too. Least the vodka’s good.” Gibbs smirks.  
  
“You were here?”  
  
“Moscow, late ‘90s. Not something we need to talk about.”  
  
Pressing her lips together, Alice nods cautiously. The silence stretches, and the knock of the Lada’s engine provides their entertainment. With an agitated sigh, she twists the dial on the radio and the speakers hiss with static. Gibbs watches the sunlight finally peer through the clouds, making the entire world outside sparkle. The rock of the road begins to lull him to sleep until Alice finds a station that makes Abby’s music seem mundane.  
  
“So what happened to that guy?” she asks, suddenly.  
  
His eyes open. “What do you mean?”  
  
“That guy that was bringing those girls to the States?”  
  
“The bastard’s going to prison for a very long time.”  
  
Alice nods. “What about the other girls?”  
  
“We had to bring in immigration. Couple got granted amnesty, but most of them are coming back.” Gibbs points to the splendor outside the car.  
  
“That’s a shame.”  
  
“Least they’re still alive. It’s better than some of the ones that we’ll probably never know about.”  
  
Alice swallows audibly, her attractive features screwing into a grimace. Gibbs leans back against the headrest. The shaking of the Lada’s engine and thump of the music rocks him into a dreamless sleep.  
  
\--  
  
 **Friday, January 19, 2007 - 5:38pm – Somewhere Outside of Zeya – Amar Province, Russia –**  
  
The jerking of the stationary car rouses Gibbs from yet another nap. He opens his eyes, focusing on the yellowed glow of the headlights that illuminate a patch of a small house ahead. It’s a single story rancher with slotted shutters that allow the lamplight to spill through. Checking his watch, he can’t believe just how dark it is already.  
  
“So this is it,” Alice’s soft voice says, invisible in the blackness.  
  
“I’ll be back.”  
  
Three days on the road and two nights in motels where even rats wouldn’t stay have brought him here. To a farming town in the middle of the Siberian tundra. Three months of detective work and a case that nearly killed two of his team led him to the moment where he’ll make good on a promise that he made to a corpse.  
  
It’s finally time to bring Yelena home.  
  
Pushing open the door, he cringes at the cold blast of air that whistles into the Lada.  
  
“I’ll keep it running,” Alice says, making him laugh. Not like the car’s been off since he met her.  
  
Rough dirt crunches under his boots as he heads to a small, wooden door just within the edge of the headlight’s range. His frozen fingers work their way into his pockets, searching for gloves strong enough to combat the Russian chill. Instead of warmth, he finds the picture of Yelena that he traveled halfway around the world to deliver.  
  
When he sighs, Gibbs can see the icicles that cling to the air.  
  
He arrives at the front door and glances back to the shuddering car. Inside, a cell phone’s blue screen blazes. Alice is probably updating Abby about their cross-country trek.  
  
Gibbs closes his eyes, envisioning his team’s excited faces as they cluster around Abby’s lab bench. While he imagines Tony munching on a bag of popcorn, Gibbs slams his fist against the door. The television’s blare cuts out and he hears several excited utterances come. Seconds later, the door opens to reveal a tall, heavyset woman with long blonde hair.  
  
Over her shoulder are a pair of identical young men that share her light coloring and large, round eyes.  
  
 _Those boys look like Yelena._  
  
 _“Simona Korovina?”_ When she nods, one of the men steps forward protectively. _“You have a daughter? Yelena?”_  
  
The woman lets out a sniff as a tear rolls down her cheek. _“Yes, I do. But she is not here. Who are you and why do you ask of her?”_  
  
Gibbs presses his lips together, retrieving the picture of Yelena’s lifeless body. No matter how many times he has this very conversation, he never knows the right way to say the words. He stares into the house where a TV plays a game show in the background and plates full of dinner sit abandoned on a table. The heat from the interior presses outward.  
  
He knows they will never forget this moment. Every sight, every sound, every smell, even the expression on his face will be emblazoned in their memories forever.  
  
 _“I am a federal agent from the United States, and I found your daughter.”_


End file.
